Nattas

A loveless arrangement

There’s nothing more wholesome, Lord Storm Nattas thought, ebony cane gripped tight in his hand as he navigated, what the ship’s architect had pompously proclaimed a boarding ramp no doubt, but was in reality nothing but a couple of rotting wooden planks nailed together haphazardly, intent on tripping a cultured person like himself, right into the port’s abyss underneath. Nothing more gratifying than being able to breathe without salt burning up your nostrils and walk on ground that stays put under your fuckin’ feet, if you make it through the ramp of death that is.

Titus paused and turned to help him over and Nattas followed the man through the host of workers rushing to unload the ship, the two armed guards falling in line behind them. Storm managed to make it to Aldenport’s main road, before stopping sweating like a pig over its funeral pyre. Three weeks after the attempt on his life, he still hadn’t recovered fully, although the reason for this break was less sinister.

He was exhausted from the journey.

“The office is there,” Titus said, face bronzed from staying on the ship’s deck for the duration, something about reminiscing of the old days. Storm had paid little attention to his words, buried to his neck as he was, with much more important business.

He breathed once deep, the air damp, but not as salty for once. Of course it stunk of horse manure and human excrement, with rotting produce added to the mix, the rains making sure the stench reached the whole of the small port village. Foul atmosphere aside, the pause had helped him get his bearings again.

“Boss?” Titus probed, probably thinking Storm had died on his feet, only but a second away before he collapsed face first in a pool of muck.

Here he lies, the people passing him by would say, pity in their eyes, Lord Storm Nattas. He may be covered in shit now and stiff as a board—

“I know where the office is,” He said gruffly, the sound of a thunder over their heads making him flinch at the end of it.

“They have horses ready.”

“Tell them to prepare a carriage for fuck’s sake!” Nattas snapped, all tense from the scare.

“You wanna wait, while they do?” Titus inquired.

In the rain was his meaning.

Storm pressed his hurting eyes closed. They had turned an irritated red after weeks at sea and were swollen alike a begging dog’s, tearing up every time he closed them.

He was the hardest working public servant in the whole continent bar none, Storm decided and then signaled for Titus to move on.

Lord Nattas house in the city of Alden was a street behind the Dome of the Five, a small two story building, the second floor reserved for him, but was nothing more than a small bedroom and a study, the first for the kitchen and the staff, which he had never gotten around to hire. So Storm had favored Mercos bakery across the street for his meals, until he finally had allowed his nephew to use the space to sleep, after he gotten back to his feet.

Parkor, pale and weakened from his own dance with death, sipped from his aromatic tea silently, while the young man’s uncle perused the reports and messages that were arriving from his agents. The pile of scrolls growing by the hour.

Mundane stuff for the most part, but he was expecting more soon. Storm had a full schedule ahead of him for the day. A meeting with the King at the Palace after noon, being the highlight. He had to navigate the latter, better than he had the boarding ramp the previous day.

“How was Cartagen?” Parkor asked unable to keep quiet any longer.

“Noisy.”

Dangerous.

“You visited the Hippodrome?”

“Never gotten around to it,” Storm replied, raising his eyes from the scroll he was reading. “Perhaps I will take you there, when I return.”

It was a vague enough promise.

Parkor’s smile was strained, his lung still hurting him. Storm could respect that, himself living in constant pain for years.

“That will be great. But I think it will be better to expose those trying to kill you first, uncle,” He said surprising him.

“They will be brought to justice,” Storm said simply, a little moved. “Fear not, dear nephew.”

There was a knock on the door of his study.

“Titus is here,” Utnas announced, after cracking the door open to check.

Storm rolled his eyes.

“Let him in.”

“Move away so I can pass, you fool!” Titus protested and shoved the large Cofol outside. “Stand there and guard the bloody door!”

Lord Nattas sighed.

“Any news?” He asked Titus and waited until the man realized there was no spare chair for him to sit on inside the small study.

“This came from Issir’s Eagle, via Riverdor,” Titus begrudgingly said, giving him the small scroll, when the fact that he was going to stand for the duration of their meeting, became apparent.

Storm hadn’t yet forgiven the hired muscle for almost having him killed on his watch a second time. He broke the wax seal on the scroll and unfurled it.

After two weeks of back and forth with his people, Lord Bach had answered.

“What does, entertain the idea, means?” Parkor asked, when he read them part of the reply.

“The High King is favorable,” Storm explained.

“Why not say it outright?” Titus queried, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“He needs assurances.”

“About the girl?” Titus probed with a chuckle.

“No you fool, not about Silvie!” Storm snapped furious, the fact that this cutthroat had even considered it, unfathomable to him. “From King Alistair.”

“Ah. It makes sense.” Titus replied with a shrug.

Abrakas surely you had reason for sparing him.

How about you reconsider?

I’ll eat the cost of hiring a new one.

The officer of the King’s guard, playing the role of a herald, announced him with the enthusiasm of someone new at the job. It seemed the Queen was holding on to her servants and palace entourage with fanatic vigor. A dog with a bone, Storm thought, just before he bowed deeply, a tight smile plastered to his face when he spotted Lord Doris sitting at the King’s table.

Alistair himself, crown of Regia on his shaven head, was glancing at the papers his treasurer was presenting one by one, dropping them on a pile before him, when he finished.

“Lord Nattas,” The king said, without looking at him. “We’ll wrap this up shortly.”

Storm almost bit his tongue off to avoid a caustic reply. He resigned remaining on his feet instead, half his weight resting on his cane, while the two Aldens walked through the expenses of the winter, already causing problems in some of the provinces and the cost of keeping ten thousand people fed and entertained while on the road.

“…they’ll pick up the fresh recruits bunch at Two Rivers Castle, then be outside Novesium next month.” Lord Doris reported, what was not in the papers.

“The weather?” The king asked.

“Better the further south they go. Keeping them near the shore is a sound delaying strategy.”

Alistair grunted, reaching for his gold goblet. A servant poured water in it, while the King kept his eyes on Lord Nattas, still waiting for them to finish.

“It is not a delaying strategy,” Alistair said. “I want them near the transports, should the need arise.”

“Of course,” Doris replied quickly.

“Sit down Lord Nattas. You seem ready to collapse,” The king snarled, his eyes always on him as he hurried to put his arse on the nearest armchair. “Perhaps your extracurricular activities should be toned down. Vices take a toll. A healthier lifestyle will help you work more for me and live longer.”

“Your Majesty,” Storm croaked chastised. “An attempt was made on my life.”

“Another?” The King inquired sitting back. “Weren’t you in Cartagen?”

“I was. And yes, another. They used poison this time. The fact I’m here today is nothing short of a miracle.”

“I will leave you alone with Lord Nattas,” Doris said getting up. “If I may suggest and I could be mistaken, so I apologize in advance Lord Nattas. I believe you should distance yourself from wayward women either way. They ruined men of sturdier moral fiber than you.”

He managed to deliver his verbal diarrhea with a straight face, the tiniest of grins on his mouth. Storm responded with a grimace instead of a smile at his words.

“Thank you, cousin. We’ll finish it later,” King Alistair intervened, a hint of razz in his voice. Storm watched the Lord Treasurer walking away until he disappeared out of a side door, thinking it was almost eerie how easily Lord Doris had identified the culprit, without any additional knowledge. Perhaps one of those weird coincidences, he decided, filing the detail away. The idea seemed ludicrous at first glance, even for his paranoid mind.

King Alistair downed the contents of his goblet and waved to an unseen servant, an elderly Lorian named Cyrus that had served him for as long as Storm remembered. The dignified man brought an engraved bottle of red wine to their table and refilled the King’s goblet in silence.

“Have you found out who it was?” Alistair asked him, when Cyrus walked away.

“A woman,” Storm replied. “But she escaped.”

“How did she manage to get close to you?”

Lord Nattas sighed. “She was involved in the previous attempt. I had her under guard at my place. She proved more cunning than I believed.”

“Your place has a dungeon?”

“No, your Majesty. You’re right, it was a mistake,” Storm backtracked quickly.

“Do you need any help to locate her? We can notify the captains of the guard in every city, have her picked up on sight.”

“I don’t think she will try again.”

King Alistair, aged face appearing tired and cheekbones more pronounced than he remembered him, tasted his wine deep in thought. “It is better to make certain, than hope about it, Nattas.”

“Yes, your Majesty. I have taken steps to ensure her apprehension.”

“I wish you fortune then,” The king said and put the goblet on the table, before him. “Now, what did you learn?” His eyes had hardened. “Where is this Dan, Lord Nattas?”

“There’s no mention of it anywhere, my Lord,” Storm replied without hesitation. “But I suspect, it might be a remnant of the Empire.”

Alistair grimaced, his jaw clenching hard at his words.

“On Eplas? A colony is your meaning?” He probed.

Lord Nattas had to lie here. Convincingly.

“I don’t believe it’s more than a city. A place where some of them might have survived,” Storm paused seeing the look on the King’s eyes. “I don’t have concrete proof of that, your Majesty.”

“But you do have something. Where on Eplas?”

“There’s only one place the Khanate’s reach isn’t firm, besides the Duchy,” Storm explained.

“Wetull proper?” The King interrupted him.

Well, there is that of course.

“With the exception of the blasted lands. I believe it is located in the north.”

Alistair reached for his goblet. “No one lives there, they tell me. Unlike ours, people stayed away it seems.”

Go big, or go home.

“That is the perception. A small colony could have survived there,” Storm sighed. “It doesn’t mean they are flesh and blood Zilans still breathing. Perhaps former slaves, fanatics of the old ways, but humans.”

Hopefully.

“And the Khan decided to ally with them. Why?”

“Magic,” Storm said simply. “The Khan is rather loose on the matter, is the word.”

“People are not,” The King pointed. “And he is no fool. If it’s magic he wants, why make it formal?”

“There’s another answer,” Storm said slowly.

“He doesn’t know,” The King answered, picking up his meaning. “Antoon though seems certain something is off, or perhaps he just knows more from the Duke.”

“Antoon believes a Zilan has the Khan’s ear,” Nattas said. “He wants a war to stop the word from spreading. Dismiss it as lies and propaganda, if it does. But I could be mistaken, my Lord.”

“Do you think we should get involved?” The King asked him, his tone measured.

“If there was a way to avoid it, without breaking from the High King, it would be preferable,” Storm offered, taking the opportunity.

“If I’m not restrained from the treaties anymore, I see no reason to help him. Lesia will think the same.”

“It might be a long time, before we know for certain,” Nattas said, treading carefully.

The King stopped him raising his left hand, the fingers of his right rapping at the table’s surface. “I want to know what Antoon knows, Lord Nattas. More about this Dan and the Prince’s consort, or whatever she is. The High King wants a war, but I won’t send Lorians to die on Eplas,” He paused, breathed once to calm himself down, then added. “Unless he gives up a Duchy.”

“Raoz?” Storm probed, a little surprised.

“Bah, what do I care about Raoz? I want Sovya, the whole of it,” King Alistair snarled, stooping forward. “Give me Sovya and Regia will have enough arms and ships in five years, to push anything Kaltha sends at us back into the sea. Kaltha or anyone else.”

“Lesia will want a piece of it, your Majesty,” Storm pointed.

“King Davenport, will do as he is told. We control the Legion now,” Alistair replied dismissively.

“What about the rest of the north, my Lord?” Nattas probed, not liking where the conversation was going. “There’s heavy turmoil right as we speak. Lucius reported as much from Gudgurth Fort. The Northmen don’t believe in borders.”

“Your people should stop reading my mail, Nattas,” The King scolded him. “But you are correct, Lucius wrote as much. He also wrote that they will reach Kas soon, with no further problems.”

Predicting future troubles is like gambling, Nattas thought, a nervous tick appearing on his left eye. Nine times out of ten, you’re wrong.

“Perhaps I misread the situation, my Lord,” Storm relented, with a bow of the head.

“I trust Lucius to convince the Jarl,” The King elucidated, sensing his reluctance. “People love him, wherever he goes. He’s a bloody hero. I don’t like it in a King, but as a diplomat my son is better than any one of us. Sovya will love him again as well. He will bring the North into Regia’s lap, mark my words.”

They will never forget the slain girl, and he’s an outsider thrown to the wolves, Storm thought, but kept his mouth shut. Lucius wasn’t to blame, but he blamed himself and that people would take as guilt. That and the secrecy surrounding the end of his marriage. To keep a secret, sometimes one had to take the hit, with a fucking smile on his face.

“You’ve met with the Queen,” King Alistair said, his tone indecipherable, forcing him out of his reverie.

“I did, your Majesty,” Storm replied carefully, taken by surprise at the turn of subject and more than a little worried.

“She praised you in a letter,” The King added, lip curled in amusement. “That’s both my wives you’ve charmed now, Nattas.”

Storm almost choked on his own spit.

Protest your innocence, he thought, as sweat appeared on his forehead. Don’t be too obvious about it.

“It was but a brief meal, my Lord!” It had come out wrong, too much fear in it.

“What was served?” The King tested, half-joking half-serious. More serious than he’d preferred.

Abrakas you piece of shit!

Storm had no idea.

“I… ahm, I arrived late, your Majesty,” He croaked, stumbling through his words.

“So no meal?”

Storm hang his shoulders, eyes on the table.

“No. But we talked,” He cleared his throat once; twice more when the first attempt failed, then continued. “About Prince Kasper.”

King Alistair sat back and rubbed his jaw with a hand, intrigued at his words.

Thank you. Oh, Vile One.

“Explain.”

“The Queen thinks and it is my opinion as well, a marriage might help us here,” He paused, Alistair raised a grey eyebrow urging him to continue. “Well, it will alleviate Antoon’s fears and allow you to stall the Legion and keep Regia out of the war.”

“An alliance though marriage, in case the treaties are voided,” The King said. “Will help Antoon, but it won’t help me. What if I want to break with Kaltha on the morrow?”

Storm blinked. “Ahm, Lady Silvie will give us a claim to Kaltha through her children.”

“It will give Antoon one to Regia before that,” Alistair pointed, not amused. “Breaking the engagement is something I can take, but a marriage… that paints me as a villain.”

“We can claim she can’t procreate, if the need arises, my Lord,” Storm offered.

“You wish me to declare my only daughter barren, Lord Nattas?” King Alistair queried warningly. “It sounded that you did.”

“Of course not, your Majesty,” Storm bowed his head chastised.

“I prefer to marry her to a Davenport. Secure Lesia. My wife will not like it, but she’ll understand.” Alistair said, looking away at the thought of the Queen.

No she won’t, Storm thought. And you know it.

“Antoon will entertain an offer,” He said instead.

“He will?” The King narrowed his eyes. “He’s desperate. Hmm.”

“Not easy to push a country to war, on a whim. People don’t know,” Storm added. “Even if they did, would they care? He has no support.”

“An engagement.” King Alistair murmured, thinking out loud.

“He’ll want it public, to secure it’s binding to the eyes of the populace,” Storm cautioned.

“It won’t though,” The King continued, a gleam in his eyes. “If the news break out that the treaties are null and void… even if it’s a year, even two. Perhaps sooner. Silvie is too young to consummate.”

“Aye, she is.” Storm droned.

King Alistair brought the goblet to his mouth. “He might ask for something more though. How soon can you know?”

“My people are in touch with Lord Bach’s agents,” For the past three weeks, Storm thought. “I can have an answer by morrow.”

The King put the empty goblet down and pushed back on his chair, eyes stilled on a map of the continent that showed the Shallow Sea and part of Eplas as well. His mind working hard in an effort to predict the future events, account for bad luck, a strained treasury and treachery, or just plain incompetence. The many threads creating a web that veiled most of the paths. He weighted what was left against a Queen’s wrath and with a grunt, gave a relieved Lord Nattas the go ahead.

Thus it was decided Prince Kasper Eikenaar and Lady Silvie Alden were to be married, although the potential couple wouldn’t hear about it for another month and only lay eyes on one another for the first time, in two.