The Duel Part Two

Dinner was ashes in her mouth. Not so much a spot of sauce went astray as Brandal ate with poised delicacy. She couldn’t wrest her eyes from the flesh torn up by his well-kept teeth. The nerve. Coming to her house. Sitting there. Eating her food and celebrating with her. What could he want? Was this some perverse power play? Or some misguided virtue?

Vashtan, evidently well versed in such matters, carried the conversation. He edged around the proper subject of Bartholt’s memory, keeping to those well-known topics of safety that existed for occasions such as these: the weather, recent parties, boats on the Med. This last topic was where he erred, as Laes, heedless of the tension, spoke up.

“The closure of the docks is simply outrageous.”

“Tymus has the right of it,” Brandal weighed in. “Operated the docks for twenty years, and now by legislative fiat he’s expected to hand over his livelihood.”

“Twenty years of strangled trade,” Dashelle countered, joining his son in the folly of this discussion. “Thankfully even with the cost of reopening, there’s going to be twice the rate paid to the city coffers. He’s done nothing with this fit of pique except further disgrace-” Mercifully, he stopped. “He’s done nothing.”

“Further disgrace... what?” Brandal asked quietly.

“Come now, we’re not here to discuss such things. We’re here for Malady.” Dashelle inclined his head to her.

“Good to know what’s going on,” she said distractedly, forgetting the proper way of speaking she was supposed to adopt as hostess. Finding the right words could often be infinitely harder than fixing a jammed musket. “Perhaps it’s natural to change how we run the city? Medressea isn’t as she once was.”

“Women no longer praised for their quotient of births? The erasure of respect for my office? And you, in prime place to benefit from both such changes.” Brandal sat back. Though he spoke with a smile on his face she felt his words like a knife through all she was.

“Like you I’m a servant of the Light, with my rewards amounting to far less for the same service.”

He went a peculiar shade of purple.

Blessed vacuous Celestine spoke up. “I think it’s just marvellous, all these new marshals in their fancy uniforms. Imperators were a catch in mother’s day but they’re all so old now! Time for a new era, don’t you think Brandal?”  She had Havis top up her glass, and rose to her feet to toast.

“To the marshals! And my cousin’s Return!”

“I beg pardon… to be excused.” Brandal heaved himself away from the table, coughing, as the others lifted their glasses.

    Cries of ‘hear, hear’ chased him from the room; obviously he would pretend some concern of health to have befallen him, and Malady left it as long as she dared before herself getting up.

    “Havis. Water, and a blanket. Salts from my dresser should he have fainted.”

    “I won’t hear of it,” Laes said, his eyes flashing outrage. “The man’s perfectly beastly coming here.” Celestine’s attention was instantly locked on him. Dashelle finally silenced his son with a frown.

    “Whatever we may think of him, he’s a soul in need,” Vashtan said. “If it pleases the lady of the house, I will take it upon myself to deal with this… situation.”

    That meant, in private, he would admonish the Imperator-Baron for his thoughtless intrusion and forebear on him to leave, and Malady was tempted beyond belief.

    But what was the Return if not a facing of all one would encounter outside of the sheltering walls of private grief? Brandal would be there; in the courts, at temple on Sunsday, privy to the workings of the Marshals’ Office. Opportunity would present itself when she could end his days. She needed to be certain until then to extend every kindness and courtesy.

On the terrace, his cloak already half-white with snow, Brandal waited with folded arms. No trace of purple. No hint of of roughness in his voice as he thanked her for attending to him.

She felt deathly afraid. No witnesses. But cold murder was a far cry from the strategic incompetence of the Imperator-Baron that had cost Bartholt his life.

“I remember when you turned back the hordes on the Dessea plains.” The words threatened to stick but she forced them out. “I will always respect what you did for Medressea in times past. You were a hero.” She let silence hang between them, but Brandal gave no reply.

“I knew another hero. My husband. Freesoul Bartholt Endiss d’Med, Light’s Marshal by appointment. He trusted you. When I warned him your methods were obsolete, he convinced me you would listen to the advisers. Do you know what he did? He made me feel glad you were leading the army.”

She held out a blanket and cup of water.

“Had he fought harder, he might have lived,” Brandal said. “The word of the Imperator-Barons was law.  Then you upstart marshals come crawling out of the woodwork, sucking on the Light’s tit.”

“Fought harder? He held the formations together while you marched them from your silk tent up on the hill into that fucking valley of death. If not for him you’d have left with zero companies, instead of the shredded remains of one.”

“You think you know the burdens of command? These newfangled toys. Letting women fight. What next? Where does it end? You’re like children grubbing around the dark for military strategy.”

“I’m not the one who got my last army wiped out.” She had to keep talking, if she stopped she would cry again. “And when it’s my turn to lead, I’ll be ready.” She pulled out her powdershot. Brandal eyed it, puzzled. “You don’t even know what this is. You don’t know what it can do. You’re so out of touch, but worse you refuse to learn. Well let me show you what it does.”

She levelled the gun at him. Still no response, though she hadn’t expected one. The reports had been clear: refusal to inspect the new rifles, refusal to hold training in their use, refusal to change the shape of the formations that might have allowed them to win despite the horrendous odds his army faced in the Dakkar Province. Failure would have been merely tragic. What he did was tantamount to murder.

She swung round, aimed at the statues ten metres from her rear porch.

Seven months since anyone but the servants had watched her shoot.

KRAKOW-KRAKOW-KRAKOW

Two statues shattered into rubble. Shouts from within; Havis first with Jereth and Dashelle close on his heels.

“Malady, what’s he-” Jereth had grabbed his coat; he’d half-drawn his own powdershot.

“My apologies,” Malady said. “A demonstration of skill to lift Brandal’s spirits; I fear I’m good at little else. Apart from childbearing, in the estimation of some. But I would need a husband for that.”

Brandal turned paler than the snow.

“First time’s always a shocker, eh,” Jereth said with a wink, and heedless of the impropriety elbowed him in the ribs.

Estelle emerged, having arranged a light shawl about herself.

“Jereth. The man’s in shock. That funny turn at Table, and now too much excitement outside. If it please you, Malady, might the servants provide spirits?”

Malady inclined her head in a delicate nod to Havis, and smiled, watching the fear sink into Brandal’s eyes. Any duel instigated by him would be fought with her weapons. He must have thought he could goad her into throwing down the glove. But now she could dance all the way to the edge of disrespect,  cross it even, and in the eyes of all, any victories --moral and martial--would be hers. The defeated Imperator-Baron hung his head as he made his ingress, and shortly made excuses to leave.

She felt a part of Bartholt she carried inside herself glow with pride. It was simply much, much better than killing him.

After the Return had concluded, and all the guests’ rowan carriages departed, Malady thanked her servants each in turn, coming last to Housemaster Havis.

“I couldn’t have done this.”

“I serve at the pleasure of the lady.”

“Very good.” She resisted the impulse to hug him, he would not have appreciated the breach in protocol.

Instead she smiled and said, “I’ll need the target range assembled tomorrow, and my winter coat readied early. Rise of the house will be dawn for myself, though all will be released from duties from the mid-morning. I’ll also need black powder and shot from the stores.”

“Milady?” His forehead creased.

“I fired thrice, Havis, and yet a statue remains.”

This time, the light in his eyes was awe.

Malady returned to her writing desk, screwed up the letter, and began another.

 

END