06 – Last shudders

“So first of all,” Count Montefel began, “if you allow possession I’m out.” He was loud, boisterous, and very believable. “We may have a long and profitable history together, but I’m not risking the sanity of myself or my men.”

“Secondly, if we have to fight in a magic-free zone I’m charging double, and I won’t be spending the money in Ravenna.”

“Why!?” Mancot choked.

“Losing men is more expensive than losing golems,” Montefel explained. “Widows pensions, orphans pensions, peril pay. It all adds up.”

“Thirdly,” he continued, “if you can’t convince me that our odds of winning are at least 4:1, or if you plan to allow the horde to pass on to South Italy and threaten Corfin, I’m out. I care about my men and their families.”

Mayor Orzo sighed. It was not unexpected, but it hurt to hear.

“But,” Montefel finished, “if you conditions are met I will fight with you, me and 22000 of my men. For my usual fee plus 12000 dinari. The might of Corfin will meet the Huns at the walls of Ravenna, and we will beat them back!” He smiled like an eagle.

At this point Paul’s help was needed in the kitchen, so he missed the rest of the planning and negotiating session.

The goat that had supplied Tessera’s goblet of blood had collapsed. Paul felt glad that there was finally a situation to deal with that he was better prepared for than the kitchen staff. At least in theory. Probably critical life-force withdrawal – really should have seen that coming, he muttered to himself. Then again, he hadn’t expected the goat to be walking about after ‘donating’ a cup full of blood. Mighty impressive. Paul himself might know all the theory about the relationships between blood, life-force, spirit and body (ok, not quite all of it) but he’d never handled an animal, never mind actually bleed one and bandage it up again.

Come to think of it, neither should the kitchen staff have such experience – they’d get their animals from the temples or workshops, dead and ready to go. Or to be real… almost certainly from the golem animation workshops, Alfred’s pride wouldn’t allow anything less. Which means…

It would stand to reason that there’s a servant from Alfred’s golem workshop here. That would explain the good care the animal received. Paul sighed. He wouldn’t be the best qualified person present after all.

Indeed, the solution to the situation was already prepared, and Paul was only needed to give permission. The goat would be slaughtered and its blood stored in a special jar so that it could be used in a ritual the next morning. The servants would eat meat tonight. That last part was the reason they needed Paul. Even if it was the sensible course of action, servants couldn’t simply give themselves permission to consume the master’s goat.

It stung that he wasn’t needed for any knowledge or ability, but for the privilege he had been born with. He gladly gave permission. The part of him that cared at all felt like they deserved it. And besides, if Alfred cared about his pantry he shouldn’t have made Paul serve food.

Paul observed whilst the goat was cut open and bled out. It wined, convulsed, and finally fell still. Paul returned to serve, feeling only slightly ill.

By the time Paul returned the conversation had died down. Many things had been discussed and decided in Paul’s absence, but the only thing that would actually effect him in the near future was that the extra 12000 denari Count Montefel had extracted would be going straight to Benjamin Farfal as a ‘consultancy fee’.

The relaxed atmosphere was disrupted when Tessera slid to the floor as a puppet with its strings cut. He landed with a thud and a clang. A message was played from his body in a voice that was emotionless, flat, inhuman. It was so divorced from the normal experience that Paul could not thing of it as ‘speech’. The message was this: “I have left some time ago already. I appreciate your assurances, but I cannot trust my well-being to a cultist’s word. Ravenna, you will pay me back for this inconvenience. You do not want to face my wrath.”

Mancot shuddered as if he felt pain in his very wallet.

Later that evening, in private, these words were spoken from Alfred to Montefel:

“It is good that you accepted those terms. There are some golemmaking tricks you do not want to find out about.”

And from Archdrew to Paul:

“I’m sorry boy. I don’t know a Helen Silversmith. Nor do I know how you could contact her.”