Rai Half-head was more than a little confused. He and Mute had been kept from going to the Boneyard today, and Big-man had handed them two stacks of clothing each, and ordered them to get dressed. Mute got into hers easy enough, but Half-head needed help with his. He was now fully dressed in clothes that were far better than those that even the Noblis’ family supplied for their servants. Half-head looked into the polished brass mirror before him, and didn’t know whether or not to gape. He was dressed in a pale blue shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to his biceps. The collar of the shirt was a darker blue, with three cresting waves stitched in black thread. Over the shirt he wore a very light tan vest, almost the color of sand. His pants were black linen, tucked into calf-high hide boots. They were a pair of Big-man’s old ones, but Big-man’s feet were too big for them now, and they were still in good condition. The damaged side of his head had been completely shaved of any remaining patches of hair, and the rest of his hair had been combed over to drape down the other side of his face. A crude, brutal-looking wooden hook had been tightened onto his stump. All in all, he cut a striking figure. Half-head shot a look at Big-man in the mirror.

No, he though bitterly, there be the striking figure. I’m just a ghastly one. Rai wasn’t one to shy away from his scars. They had been a part of him for so long that he almost couldn’t remember not having them. However, when he looked at the face of his employer, he couldn’t help but feel envious. When Rai had been part of the crew, most boys who were his age, and even those who were a couple years older, would be scared of him for his scars. He had fostered a reputation for brutalness to any who threatened him, and he and Mute had planted stories about the origins of his scars; each one dastardlier and more horrifying than the last. That had been how they stayed safe. The lower docks were a brutal world. His contribution to survival had been physical, while Mute’s had been mental. But when he had been in his old crew, he had to work to inspire fear rather than disgust. Big-man though, all he had to do was look at you with those yellow eyes, and grin his wicked grin. Even when he tried to soften it, it was a scary thing.

Half-head was the brutish type. He came across as threatening due to his ghastly appearance and meticulously built reputation. He seemed indomitable due to his obscured past and brutality with his club. Big-man was a different beast entirely. Big-man could look at you and make you feel inferior, make you feel like you were nothing but a potential plaything. The funniest part was that Big-man didn’t do it on purpose. Rai shook his head and sighed inwardly at the sight of his employer. If his look had been as lethal as a spear to the heart before, now it was like a razor at your throat.

Big-man’s clothing was very similar to Half-heads, just much nicer. His vest was a deep black instead of light tan, and his thick belt had a silver buckle in the shape of three cresting waves. Big-man had been nervous for most of the morning, setting up the room just so. He had moved all the furniture into the bedchamber save for a single highbacked wooden chair that also had the wave motif carved into its head, and his sheathed longsword hanging conspicuously over the back.

The chair was a simple one made from an expensive wood called Mahogany. Rai had been tasked with retrieving the chair from a small warehouse owned by the Noblis family; Big-man had apparently gotten it for his seventeenth name day. Getting that Chaff Burned chair up the stairs with only one hand had been an exercise in misery. He had asked the guards at the base of the stairs to help him, but they had ignored his request.

Many of the younger guards on the Noblis estate were not particularly fond of Half-head. New and relatively unvetted in the ways of the world, they were still the types to make judgements of others based solely on appearances. Big-man had straightened that right out when he had arrived at the foot of the stairs and witnessed the scene. He had barked at the two young men-at-arms like ‘a true sergeant major’ as Narm or Bietre would put it, and soon had them polishing the chair until it shone while apologizing to Half-head profusely. Big-man’s rank in relation to the other men-at-arms and guards wasn’t clear or official, as he was outside their chain of command, but he was somewhere on the same level as the captain of the household guard. At the very least, he and the captain didn’t try to tell each other what to do.

Now Big-man was standing behind the very same chair that had received such an aggressive buffing, arranging a few bottles and some flasks on a shelf. For some reason, all of the flasks looked well used, while the bottles of wine remained completely untouched. Half-head knew that Big-man didn’t drink often, it was one of the things he liked about his employer, but when Big-man did, he always preferred wine or light brandy to rotgut or firewater. Half-head shrugged; it was probably one of those political games that he so hated. Mute entered from the servants’ quarters that they shared, cutting off his train of thought.

Mute entered demurely, trying to foster the dull appearance she had been aspiring to for the last six months. Big-man was obviously aware of her attempts, and had ordered the clothes with that in mind. It was a primarily black dress that went down to her ankles with a white apron over the front. The collar and hem of her dress were also blue, and stitched with the wave patterns. Half-head had to admit, Big-man had really gone all out for this meeting. Honestly, the somewhat reformed ruffian didn’t know why. It had something to do with their visitor being a duke, Half-head knew that much. Despite his scarred rictus of a face, he wasn’t stupid. He understood the implications of a Duke visiting Big-man. It did confuse him why One-eye had expected it to happen over a year before. Big-man was semi-important figure as Bietre’s pseudo bodyguard, but not enough for a Duke to be visiting. Even now, he knew he was missing something, something important, but he couldn’t rightly figure what that was. Just then a knock came at the door, and an unfamiliar voice rang out.

“His Excellency, Duke Adarian MacNeil, and his Heir, Lord Patrick MacNeil! Open your door for your betters, or I shall open it for you!”

Big-man looked up with a wry smirk that he quickly wiped off his face in favor for an expression of boredom. He strolled over to the only chair and lounged in it unconcernedly, projecting an air of supreme comfortability. Half-head thought that the Porter’s words were a little rude, but Big-man had told him to expect their visitors to try and assert force. Big-man waved him to then door, as Mute slid to a shadowed corner of the room, not to appear unless requested. Her self-designated job was to observe. Half-head took a deep breath through his nose, and adjusted his Jitte on his hip. He strode towards the door with a street swagger he didn’t really feel. But this was a game he knew, the game of savviness. Whoever was the most relaxed won. He opened the door and swept into a bow, using his crude wooden hook to push away his Jitte.

***

Emma stood in the shadow of a small bookcase in the corner of Sir Donovan’s guestroom, silent as always. Sher cursed herself for a fool for not faking being a dullard sooner. For much of the last year she had begun to adopt the act, but it was difficult after her previous, if somewhat sporadic, displays of humor and understanding. The only positive was that she had caught herself in time to prevent people realizing just how intelligent she was. Emma was somewhere around nine years old at this point, but she was something of a prodigy. She had long since started sneaking history books to replace the story-books Ser Donovan gave her. She also was far more mature and world-wise than any nine-year-old had a right to be. She shied away from the reason for that. Not many girls her age knew what it was like to bite a man’s thumb off.

Emma had stopped learning from Countess Isabelle some time ago, although she still kept up the appearance of learning. She understood far more that the thin, matronly woman thought she did, and had taken from learning from a different source. Lady Natalia’s maids. Lady Natalia had a small retinue of servants who cared for her daily, which was curious, since the young noblewoman only ever enlisted the actual services of two or three of them. The other ten ostensibly cleaned the estates or grounds, and had to report to her on progress daily. However, Emma knew that Natalia toured the grounds herself daily, and kept abreast of any changes that way. That was when Emma realized what was really happening. Lady Noblis was a spymaster. A small-scale one to be sure, probably just enough to get a good idea of events on the estate, and a basic understanding of those outside of it. Once she had realized the purpose of these individuals, she started listening in on their conversations, acting like a dullard all the while. She had learned quite a bit, although she had to sort out rumor from fact. After she heard a ridiculously sordid rumor about Lady Natalia and the Captain of the estate guard Gerald, she realized that some information might be compromised. Judging by the way that Captain Gerald looked at Lord Noblis and Sir Donovan, he swung the other way in that particular court.

Emma had also spent considerable time practicing analyzing people. It took time for her to learn how to do it without garnering attention, but she had a handle on it, for the most part. She was a little nervous about being spotted studying their current guests, but her position in the shadows would help hide any slip-ups on her part, and if anyone did note her attention, it could be passed off as a young maid curious in the happenings around her. Although, that wasn’t the hope, she wanted to continue to garner a look of a simpleton maid.

Her eyes latched on the first figure through the door. A guardsman in leather armor with a large sword on his back. She dismissed him immediately, he was likely unimportant to the information exchange. She might watch his responses for anything abnormal, but that would be it. Emma’s light green eyes found Duke MacNeil next, and she ran through a mental checklist.

Short, thin, short combed hair, thin mustache, rapier at the hip. Her thoughts flowed, categorizing him immediately. It was a skill she had picked up in identifying targets to pickpocket. She smiled slightly. The first time she and Rai had met Undertaker Narm and Sir Donovan, she had tried to warn her brother to stay away from the one-eyed man’s purse, but he wouldn’t listen. She wiped her face clear almost immediately, making her analysis of the Duke’s son next.

His hair was an unruly mop od brown curls, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved in a day or two, with a wispy beard coming in. Lord Patrick was taller than his father, and a little bulkier. He also wore a rapier at his hip, hilt covered with gold filigree as his father’s was. Her information intake done; Emma made her analysis.

Duke MacNeil was dignified sort, more a politician and business-man than fighter. He probably hated all things that were in barbaric taste, which was probably why Sir Donovan went out of his way to make the room scream war brute. The axe over the fireplace, sword hanging on his chair, and the handful of spears, halberds and brutish weapons he had leaning against the walls meant the room had entirely too many pointy objects in it. They gave it a threatening air. Emma nearly smiled again. That was its intent, she knew. Unlike her brother, Emma knew exactly what three cresting waves meant, and who her caretaker was. She had figured it out just a few weeks ago, and was quite proud of herself. She also felt an odd sense of pride for Ser Donovan’s display. He was obviously trying to paint a particular picture of himself for the Duke. She looked at Ser Donovan and saw him engrossed in picking at his fingernails with a dirk, ignoring his guests for now. He lounged. A minute passed. Two. The Guardsman’s face grew red with fury, and Lord Patrick gripped his Rapier until his knuckles were white. The Duke, for his part, remained unruffled in all ways, patiently waiting. After three minutes Lord Patrick finally spoke.

“By the Reapers Scythe, have you no respect, peasant? Show respect to your betters or I-”

“Lord Patrick,” Sir Donovan interrupted smoothly while examining his cuticles, “It is impolitic to speak before your father in this situation, no matter how bad of a hangover you have.” Patrick looked ready to draw his rapier, but his father stayed his hand without taking his eyes from Sir Donovan. “I would hate to have to excise you from this meeting.” He sliced away nail that didn’t meet his expectations meaningfully. A slight smile tugged at Duke MacNeil’s lips, one that Emma noted.

Silence reigned for another 30 seconds before Sir Donovan put down his knife and looked at his guests, leaning forward then back in his small throne.

“I apologize.” He said simply, “You arrived four minutes early, and I hold punctuality to be very important.”

“Do you now?” Lord Patrick gritted out. Sir Donovan looked at him and grinned, showing absolutely none of the restrain he used for Emma’s sake. Lord Patrick actually recoiled slightly from the bloodthirsty smile. When Sir Donovan spoke, his words had the cadence of something oft repeated, and a lesson well-learned.

“Lesson 12: When in possession of the smaller weapon, your timing must be exact. Just so. Not too late. Not too early. Just so.” Emma looked at the glint in the eyes of Sir Donovan and felt a brief moment of pity for their three guests. Oh well, she was just along for the ride.