DarkFyre Ch. 05

Despite her attitude toward him, Silmaria couldn't help but watch Lord Rael as he ate at the formal dining table. He was still wearing his traveling clothes, which were surprisingly simple and plain in design and cut. His thick cloak was the only thing of any real remarkable quality, a rich dark blue trimmed in silver, IronWing colors. His clothes were otherwise unadorned, a pair of thick black trousers and a heavy gray wool tunic made for winter. His dark leather riding boots were dusty from travel, and he had a pair of thick riding gloves folded and resting on his leg. He ate in silence, with his walking stick propped against his chair. It was impossible to read anything from his face, but his glinting silver eyes moved about the room, watchful.

By the time Steward Jonor entered the full household was assembled. Silmaria noted how few they were; though they were closer to three dozen than two, once House IronWing had proudly been served by twice as many.

Jonor had changed to simple and modest clothes more appropriate to his station. They were by and far the cheapest clothes Silmaria had seen him wear since Master Edwin's death and the Steward's subsequent seizing of power. He still smelled overpoweringly of spiced perfume.

Lord Rael finished his meal. He did not rush his pace, but ate as his leisure. When he finished, he wiped his mouth on a dinner napkin, and turned his attention to Jonor. His brows rose slightly in question and he swept a hand toward the assembled servants.

"This is it? This is everyone?"

"Yes, my Lord," Jonor said, and had the grace to cringe a bit.

Lord Rael looked equal parts perplexed and displeased. "This can't be right. My Father's...that is, my House holds many more than this. I remember this place being alive and full of people tending the estate. Why so few now?"

Silmaria was balling her hands into fists again and she was literally biting her tongue to keep herself silent. That idiot! That great Noble twat! If the man had bothered giving a damn before this very second he would have known exactly what the situation with his people and his lands were. Instead, he was sitting there looking like the fool of a spoiled Lordly prick that he was, wondering why things were all amiss. It was all the Gnari could do not to go stomping off from the dining hall then and there. Cook's ever watchful look of reproach was all that kept her silent as it was; her friend simply knew her too well and was watching her like a hawk.

"Yes, well. That is, I'm afraid we've had a decline in the number of servants employed here, my Lord. We no longer house the number we once did. Dreadful business, really."

"Do tell," Lord Rael said mildly.

"Well, you see...." Jonor began. He hesitated, panic flashing in his eyes. And then his face changed as his small, sly mind found an answer.

"I'm afraid that when your Lord Father, may The Twelve gods rest his soul, passed away, we lost many of our workers. Most of them cited displeasure with the way Master Edwin ran his Household. He became unstable as his sickness took him I'm afraid, and quite belligerent. Always yelling at the help and abusing them, even as he weakened. His sickness took his mind from him alongside his body, you know. Those who didn't leave of their own choosing were sent away by Master Edwin during his fits of delirium. On top of that, his illness unbalanced his judgment so much, he squandered much of the house coffers on nonsense and meaningless trinkets. I'm afraid by the time our Good Lord IronWing passed, the results...are what you see now."

The silence that followed was all encompassing. The servants watched, their faces registering the shock and discomfort with what Jonor just said, but no one said a word. The Steward's lies were bold and cruel, and he'd likely get away with it completely. Rael hadn't seen his father in years, and hadn't come home when Master Edwin fell ill. He likely had no idea the exact circumstances of his father's illness.

And what use was there for the serving folk to contradict the Steward? Most Nobles didn't put much stock in the common servant's voice, and though the Steward was a servant of sorts himself, his station and authority was above theirs. Whether because they believed they wouldn't be heard and feared the consequences of the Stewards wrath, or they were simply too stunned to contradict him, the silence held.

"That is bullshit!"

The whole room seemed to jump. Cook, getting over her surprise, tried to make a grab at Silmaria, curses tumbling over themselves in a panicked jumble. But Silmaria was already moving, squirming away from her friend and shoving the servants in front of her out of the way to step to the front of the crowd. Her exotic eyes flashed with emerald fire as she stalked forward, her jaw clenched, teeth bared.

Jonor stared at her, the color drained from his face and his jaw fell open in a gape. "Y-you dare!" he sputtered at last.

Silmaria was past all caution by then. Jonor's outright lies and slanderous words against Master Edwin had driven her immediately beyond any semblance of restraint. She walked right up to the portly Steward and put an accusing finger in his face, her wickedly sharp claw's extended and pointing just inches from his cheek.

"The rest of these cowards may not have enough love left for Master Edwin to speak up, but I do! You're a miserable lying sod! Master Edwin's mind was his own until the day he passed, and every last one of us here knew he treated us fair and good! No one left willingly. You forced them out! You forced out good people who loved this place from their home, and for nothing! So House IronWing could crumple and decay from neglect because there aren't enough of us left to keep it up properly. And for what? Because you're a greedy son of a whore and wanted the house funds at your fingertips so you could buy whatever useless decadence your black heart desires!"

By then the Gnari girl was so angry she was visibly shaking. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew this was folly, but years of bitterness and anger from being judged and shunned, the abuse and mistreatment over the past year, and most of all the pain of losing Master Edwin had built up too much, and now that she had let down her guard, she found she couldn't stop herself.

"I can't stop you from cutting our food rations or working us into the ground. I can't keep you squandering the House wealth on your own selfish desires. But I'll be damned by the Old Gods and the New alike if I'll let you bold faced lie about it all and drag Lord Edwin's name through the mud to do it!"

By then Jonor's face was flushed crimson and his false smile had at last fallen away. His eyes were wide, bulging and filled with incredulous rage, and his bejeweled fingers clutched in a distinctly strangling motion at the air. "Let me? Let me? As if the feelings or opinion of a wretched little mongrel whore like you matter to begin with! How dare you speak to your betters this way! How dare you speak this way in front of your Lord! You are nothing but a mangy whore who can't keep her legs shut! That's right, you beastly harlot; I know who you are, and I know what you are, and I know how to deal with women like you!"

The Steward lunged forward clumsily and raised up a swollen hand to strike the Gnari woman. Silmaria sprang nimbly back out of his reach. Jonor tripped, stumbling unbalanced as she moved beyond the range of his arm. The man turned even redder, if it were possible, and made to strike her again.

And let out a yelp of surprise as Rael's heavy hand clamped around his wrist, holding it in a grip like steel. The Nobleman's face was not pleased, and his eyes were hard and flinty. He made to speak, but before he could, Silmaria darted forward. She got in Jonor's face again and spoke through gritted, bared teeth.

"You aren't worthy of scrubbing the muck out of my Master's stables, more-less running his house. He was a great man. And you? You're a pretender and a coward. You know nothing about me."

Jonor glared daggers at the woman, his arm quivering where he tried to strike, but Lord Rael's grip was implacable. Then his face changed, and he gave a sickeningly sweet smile while his eyes dripped pure malice, the look of a man who knows he knows where to hurt someone worst. "I know enough. I know you haven't served in this house so long because you're a quality worker. The only reason Lord IronWing kept you around at all is found squarely between your legs."

The servant woman stared into the man's smug, superior eyes. The sneer fell from her face, her features becoming expressionless and still for the barest whisper of a moment. And then the moment passed, and Silmaria quite viciously smashed her forehead into Steward Jonor's face with every bit of force she could. It was enough to send a resounding crack through the air, and Jonor screamed high and shrill, clutching his bleeding, flattened nose with his free hand. Without a word, Silmaria turned and ran from the room.

Aside from the whining and whimpering of the Steward, the foyer was totally silent with shock. The servants glanced at one another nervously, uncertain and seemingly caught between fear of some impending punishment and gladness for Jonor finally getting what he so well deserved.

The pudgy, bleeding Steward cursed miserably, holding his nose as the red sticky drops streamed between his fingers. "Someone grab that impudent little Gnari cunt! I'll have her strung up from the trees, I'll..."

"Do absolutely nothing," Rael finished for him.

Jonor stared at him, incredulous. "M-My Lord! You can't mean to let her get away with this!"

"I've more important matters to attend," Rael said coldly. He still held firmly to Jonor's wrist. Even leaning on his cane, The Nobleman's grip was such that the Steward was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers. "I'm not the fool you think I am, Steward. Nor was I as out of touch with my Father as you'd like to believe. I exchanged letters with him to his dying day, and I know his mind was whole and healthy. I also know the state of House IronWing in his final days, and it was quite stable and prosperous. And I know that my Lord Father instructed you to keep things running in the same way, without making any changes to the servants or house running until I was able to return from the front."

Jonor had gone from flushed to pale very quickly. He stared at the Nobleman towering over him with eyes wide with fear, and teetered a bit as if lightheaded. "My Lord?" He said, not seeming to comprehend.

Rael released Jonor's hand and grabbed the front of the Steward's plain tunic, wadding it in his big fist. He yanked at the man, who was too round to be very light, yet moved him as if he weighed nothing. "Steward Jonor. You have besmirched the name of my House, and the honor of my Lord Father, your sworn Lord. You have denied his dying wishes, taken IronWing funds and resources to use for your own personal gain and fulfillment. You have allowed my home, my lands, and what is mine by inheritance and birthright to fall into an unacceptable state. You have misused my people, wronged my staff, and let good folk go homeless and penniless without proper cause. You, Jonor, have failed in every oath you swore as Steward to this house, and you are every bit of what that girl accused you of."

Jonor began to babble out a nonsensical litany of apologies, excuses, accusations, and pleads for mercy. Rael ignored him. He spied one of the few men gathered wearing the uniform of a House IronWing guardsman, a short, solidly built man with dirty blonde hair.

"You. Tell me your name."

"Tomas, milord," the man replied, dropping a bow.

"Tomas, we still have that holding cell in the back, yes? The one Father built to hold anyone who drank too much until they sobered up?"

"Aye, milord, it's still there."

"Good," Rael nodded. He shoved Jonor, none too gently, toward Tomas, and the Steward stumbled and fell heavily. "See that Jonor spends the night in it. He will be on his way to Trelling's Rest tomorrow to face the King's Justice for his crimes against my holdings and people."

"What? My Lord, no! Please no, I beg of you!" Jonor sobbed, reaching for Rael. Tomas grabbed the man by the back of his collar and hauling him backwards, nearly dumping him on his backside once more.

Rael stared at Jonor, the set of his face calm and hard and unforgiving. "By right, I could have you beheaded for your crimes against me and mine. Don't push me, Jonor, I'm fresh from the road and not long on patience." He raised his eyes to Tomas and nodded to the man. "Take him."

"Gladly, Milord," Tomas replied, and proceeded to show obvious enthusiasm for the task.

Rael watched the men go, then turned his strangely colored eyes back to his servants. He gripped his walking stick, leaned against it as he studied them for a moment. Such a blend of emotion on their faces. Fear. Confusion. Hope.

"I owe all of you an apology," the young Nobleman said, his voice deep and rich as he pitched it to carry to all their ears. "I did not know things were so bad here. I did not know Jonor was false. And I should have, war or no. He will be punished, and I will not allow this to happen again. It is a late start, I know, and I understand if you all have no love for me for letting you be put through this. But I will make it right. You have my word.

"I need a few things addressed immediately, to get things on proper track. First, who is responsible for the kitchen here?"

Cook shuffled forward, did her best attempt at a curtsy, and then self-consciously began to fidget with the scarf wrapped around her head holding her hair up and back. "I am, Milord."

"What is your name, good woman?" Rael asked.

"Rosella, Milord, but everyone just calls me Cook."

Rael cracked a smile at that. "Very well, Cook. I need you to take two capable help, and make some food for everyone. Double whatever the usual rations are. If you don't think double rations would be enough to send someone to bed with a full belly, then triple it. No one goes hungry in House IronWing from here on, understand?"

"Yes, Milord. I'll make sure everyone sups well tonight!"

"Very good," Rael nodded, dismissing her. Cook grabbed two servants from the cluster in the Dining Hall and dragged them excitedly to the kitchens. Servants began to speak quietly, and not so quietly to one another, their faces alight at the prospect of a good meal for the first time in nearly a year. They fell quickly silent when Rael held up a hand.

"Who here is good with sums? I need someone who is confident in their numbers, sure of them even."

A moment passed in silence, then a Halfling nudged his way past the taller serving folk to stand at the front. He had a short, well-trimmed beard gone gray, a curly mop of salt-and-pepper hair, and a Halfling sized jacket that was heavily patched in the elbows. "I know my sums, Milord. I was the good Master Edwin's books keeper before Steward Jonor was given charge. He stripped me of my duties. Said he could count for himself."

"What is your name?" Rael asked the Halfling.

"Selm, as it please you Milord."

"Selm, how would you like your old job back?" Rael asked with a questioning arch of his brows.

"If it please Milord, very much," Selm replied, smiling nervously.

Rael extended his hand, which after hesitating a moment uncertainly, Selm shook.

"You'll be a very busy man for some time, I'm afraid. I need an accounting of our books and supplies by sundown tomorrow. And check in with Cook to see what our food supplies look like."

Selm drew himself up as a tall as he was able which, for a Halfling, was pretty respectable. "It will be done, Milord."

"Good man."

His gaze swept over the rest of the serving folk, addressing all of them. He met as many of their eyes as he could, his words frank and his expression serious, sincere. "It will take some time, and some hard work from all of us, but I believe we can restore my Father's house...my house...all of our house, to what it once was. We can bring House IronWing out of the hard times it has fallen on and make it shine once more. My Father led this House with honor and diligence that did his forefathers proud. I have not done a good job of following in his footsteps. But I will change that, with your help."

The serving folk stared at the tall, strong young man standing before them, uncertain what to say. None of them were very used to being addressed in such a frank way by someone of Noble station. They were still skittish, nervous from too many days of harsh treatment. None seemed to want to speak first.

At last an aged woman stepped forward, a shawl about her withering but strong shoulders. She looked at Rael critically with eyes that had gone cloudy with age but saw much. "My name is Lirena, Milord."

Recognition flickered, hazy but growing, in Rael's eyes. "Lirena. I know you."

"I should hope so, Milord. I've served House IronWing since you were a lad running about this place like an unholy terror. Before the Knight Brothers stole you away and left our house less cheerful and more restful."

Rael smiled again, this time more sincerely, and his face was the more handsome for it. "You used to scold me for tracking mud in after the winter snows thawed."

"And well I should, since I was the one cleaning the floors!" Lirena said with a nod as her smile creased her weathered face. She sobered somewhat when she said, "You've been away for a long time, Milord. I won't ask the whys; I believe you had good reason, and even if you didn't it wouldn't be my place to say so. All I know is, your Lord Father, may all gods rest his good soul, was proud of you. He believed in you. He knew you was about important business at the war, and when you returned, you'd be a good and proper heir. Master Edwin was the smartest man I ever did meet, and if he believed in you, that's enough for me."

Rael took the woman's small, thin hand in his and patted it gently, meeting her upturned eyes. "Thank you, Lirena. Father would be proud of you, too."

The Knight Captain looked to his people as one by one, they agreed to work with him to put the House to rights. "Thank you. All of you. Please, everyone go get some food. Eat your fill. Then retire early. Come the morn, we will all have much work to do. Tomorrow will bring many changes."

As the servants filed out, Rael turned his eyes back to the old woman, and patted her hand once more. "One more thing before you go, old mother. That woman. The one who spoke against Jonor. What is her name?"

The old woman stared at him for a moment, then a wry, rascally smile formed. "You certainly are your father's son, aren't you?"

Rael looked puzzled. "Come again? I'm afraid I don't understand."

Lirena laughed and shook her head, and this time it was she patting his hand. "Don't you worry about it, it matters not. Silmaria. The girl's name is Silmaria."

***

Comments, critiques, and criticisms welcome. Plenty more to come!