The Historian’s Novel

In the dim chandelier light of a well kept, richly decorated office; the tension between two men: The Marquess of Rutherford; comfortably sitting behind his solid wood desk, and a messenger who had travelled a long distance to meet him, was beginning to grow strained.

   “Let’s get this straight,” the Marquess said slowly, while above them, their audience of taxidermized wall-mounted animal heads watched on in anticipation. “Not only have you come to tell me your country is in need of more aid than our contract stipulates, but I should also expect other changes in a long-since established deal that has already entered the final stages of its execution?”

   The messenger offered a tacit smile, showing he believed the Marquess could only acquiesce.

   “Unfortunately, with how things developed… While progress in amassing an invading force has seen exponential success, related costs to keep our activities hidden are proving to be much greater than anticipated.”

   The Marquess of Rutherford closed his eyes. “Of course they are.”

   “I’m afraid I’ve been sent to insist,” the messenger said helplessly, “please, think of this modification as… another investment.”

   Reaching for the seal on his desk, the Marquess of Rutherford gestured for the messenger to set his documents down. His hand hovering over the papers, the Marquess hesitated instead of stamping to pose the other man a question.

   “Let’s get the cat out of the bag, is this change because your leaders are illiterate incompetents? Or is it because you think of me as a defenceless fruit; ripe to be squeezed for its juices?”

   “I beg your pardon?” the messenger said, as the Marquess of Rutherford loudly stamped not paper, but the table. Multiple times.

   “Your information is out of date, messenger. Had your country any actual merit, perhaps you might have been made aware there is no longer a reason for myself, or anyone really, to support your… Western aspirations.”

   The messenger pulled away, as if the Marquess’s desk had become a terrible beast.

   “You speak treasonous words sir, for someone so closely tied to us,” he gasped, offended to the point he undid his collar, “do I need to state it a clear fact a knot tightly tied is not so easily unravelled?”

   “Not if you have a sword,” the Marquess of Rutherford murmured, brushing a finger against the necklace he wore which had engraved on it a great serpent with wings, while watching the messenger who soon found it wasn’t his collar turning tight out of heated irritation, but his neck that had begun physically swelling.

   Understanding that at some point their negotiations had gone terribly wrong, the messenger looked at his hands, discovering they were slowly but surely turning a dark shade of purple.

   “I really do wonder why it is I am talking with you at all,” the Marquess added, when the messenger who couldn’t speak any longer, let alone breathe, made to flee. Only to fall; clutching at a throat that managed to swallow a few last wheezes for air.

   A third man, who had watched it all happen from the room’s corner pulled a pocket watch out. “Ten minutes on the dot,” he said, examining with disappointment the messenger whose drool leaked out of his mouth, “I do hope you know what you’re doing. Because from my perspective, it feels like the Rutherford’s might soon face a conundrum.”

    “They can’t accuse me of treason if I was never on their side to begin with,” the Marquess of Rutherford said, ringing a bell on his desk.

   In entered four men, large in stature and with expressionless faces. Dressed in long flowing clothes that were a mismatch for those born in the Velvetican Kingdom, along with having features that marked them as being from elsewhere, the only apparent relation between them and the Marquess, were the symbols tattooed onto their necks which coiled about.

   Grabbing a limb each, they carried out the messenger’s corpse without speaking a word.

   “Now, how about instead of trying to advise me, Richter, you instead focus on your alchemy,” the Marquess said dryly, crumpling up the messenger’s documents. “Though you can take cheer in knowing my family, and by extension, you, will remain uninvolved from the falling debris that is this deal coming apart. The support given to their country cannot be traced back to my name. Of that, I can assure you.”

   “Then can I —”

   “Yes, you can have the body. But spare me the devilish details of what you intend to do with it please.”

   The many amulets around Richter’s neck jingled, offended, “The devil has nothing to do with science,” he said, “I want him for experiments. Not rituals.”

   “Do you think I care there’s a difference?”

   Richter’s nose twitched. Not towards the Marquess, but the door to which he looked at with disgust. “Perfume and sweat,” he said under his breath, “your son has returned. May I leave?”

   The Marquess leaned back in his chair. “No. No you may not,” he said, before the door opened, and in wafted the smell of a man who knew of a life filled with enticements and drink.

   “You sent for me?” Gregory Rutherford asked his father, a quick glance the only acknowledgement he gave Richter.

   “I did,” said the Marquess of Rutherford, throwing a sealed envelope at his son.

   Cutting through the air, it would have been an impressive display if not for the fact Gregory fumbled and dropped it. Bending over to pick up the letter, Gregory’s puzzled face pre-dated his question.

   “What’s this s’posed to be?”

   “It’s what you will deliver to the Baron of Strightsworth,” the Marquess said, clicking his tongue in disappointment, “I have arranged for a carriage. I expect you to not miss its departure this evening.”

   “But I’ve got arrangements that stretch out till next week,” Gregory said, only for his complaints to be dismissed by the Marquess who slammed a fist on his armchair.

   “Forget your whores. Do you even know what’s going on at this moment? What’s at stake?”

   Gregory opened his mouth to respond. His father kept talking.

   “The Baron of Strightsworth is active again. And he is currently leaving a bloody hellscape behind him while systematically tearing down every effort we’ve made to support the West! All of my efforts, are being flushed down the drain because of one heathen!”

   Gregory seemed to understand that perhaps their situation might be rather bad.

    “Shouldn’t he need the king’s permission for that? Uh… What’s it called… Consent from the crown?”

   “Our fraternizing king won’t move to stop him,” Richter said with distain, “he’s always allowed Havoc to run free.”

   “I’ve got buddies who say it’s because of blackmail… Why don’t we just find out what sort of dirt he has over the king?”

   “Oh yeah sure, “Richter shot snidely, out of turn, “let me run a survey on who wants to enter the lair of a dragon for a few sacks of gold.”

“Well do you have a better idea?”

   The Marquess of Rutherford’s voice rose above their argument before it could truly start. “Stop it. The Baron of Strightsworth isn’t even calling it a war. He’s presenting his actions as a ‘border exercise’ to create a buffer zone between our two… borders… God I hate how simple minded he is. What I would give to know why his indifferent attitude has suddenly changed…”

   “I still don’t see what any of this has to do with me,” Gregory said, crossing his arms in a childish display of defiance, “these games of power are yours. I’m content living my life in the moment.”

   “Your life of excess was built on my games of power!” the Marquess furiously shouted, throwing a glass book-stopper at his son who ducked; avoiding what shattered behind him.  “How do you not understand we need to eliminate all potential threats before the Caneo envoys finish crossing the sea and arrive?  With us losing the West, I can’t even give their prince the justification his brother wants to invade! You can’t gain public support for annexing an incompetent country if they’re doing just fine!”

   “Then aside from delivering a letter, what do I need to do?”

   “That letter is but a cover for you to enter the Baron’s manor. Havoc won’t return from war for at least several months. During which, you need to secure that damned abomination of a princess… I had my hopes, but she’s starting to play around with her bloodline. It’s only a matter of time before a mage sniffs her out and lets the world know the king’s daughter is still alive.”

Gregory stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Right… isn’t she still in Lurington?” he asked, turning towards Richter, “that’s kind of far. Why not send the resident potion freak? It’ll give your estate a chance to air out.”

“Because he’s helping me with other things,” the Marquess said, exasperated.

Richter spoke up. “And I’ll remind you my employment is on the condition that I get what I want.”

“You’ll have her,” said the Marquess.

“Well, I’m getting a bit tired of waiting,” Richter said, placing a capped vial onto the Marquess’s desk.

“What is this?” Gregory asked, taking the vial for himself.

Richter sighed as if he wanted to die. “It’s for if the princess catches on that you’re trying to drag her away. A few drops are all you’ll need to incapacitate her. Giving you more than enough time to tie her up and toss her in the back of a carriage.”

“I doubt I’ll need it,” Gregory said, struggling to undo the paper disclaimer tied around the vial’s cap. “Can’t I use it for fun?” he asked after reading it, “because the effects leading up to blackout look really, really appealing.”

“No, don’t be stupid,” said the Marquess of Rutherford.

“But how am I supposed to find the princess while visiting the Baron’s estate?” Gregory asked.

Richter chuckled at Gregory’s impending expense, “Hey, I heard the Baron of Strightsworth’s daughter took fancy to a bar maid from Lurington recently. Can you guess who it is, or why I’m even bringing this up?” 

“Because she’s pretty?”

“For crying out loud, it’s because she’s the princess!” barked the Marquess of Rutherford, standing up to lean over his desk. “Etch this into your skin. Your job is to visit the Baron of Strightsworth’s territory while he is away doing war under the guise of meeting his daughter who you proposed engagement too. Remember that?” Gregory nodded, “Good. Invite her here. Insist she bring the princess along if you can. And do nothing else if that works. Don’t resort to using drugs, unless you’ve already tried and failed everything else. The Baron is no better than a hound, he might sniff you out.”

Gregory looked to be suffering from information overload.

“But I thought we were leaving the princess alone because there’s no proof you did in the queen?”

The Marquess pulled back, dragging his nails against the wooden desk in barely restrained anger, “Richter, please say you have a potion that can change someone’s face that I might rely on actual intelligence instead of my buffoon of a son.”

“If I had something like that, I would be swimming in money, not working for you,” Richter answered.

   “Am I… Am I wrong?” Gregory asked.

   Richter clasped his hands together, like a teacher readying themselves to explain a very simple concept to a child. “Have you ever had a woman reject you?” he asked.

   “Not often,” Gregory mumbled.

   “But how did it make you feel after getting shot down? Frustrated, I bet. Since you’d know she’s still out there, walking around, living her life, a permanent reminder that you failed to—”

   “Enough.” The Marquess of Rutherford interrupted, in such a cold tone Richter zipped his lips, threw away the key, and stepped out of the light.   

   Gregory scratched at his nose. Who knew whether out of embarrassment, or because he still didn’t understand. “Okay, fine… Though I’m still against the idea of marrying some backwater girl. Let alone one who ignored my engagement proposal.”

   “I don’t think he knows the marriage would be purely in name,” Richter said from the back.

   “Yeah, I do,” Gregory said, “I remember not mentioning that point when writing the engagement proposal.”

   The Marquess, his eyes widening in disbelief, slowly opened his mouth. “You… You wrote it yourself? No wonder she never answered!”

   “It’s only been a month,” Gregory said defensively, “if she’s shy it might take a while!”

   “I explicitly told you to get someone else to write that letter!” the Marquess yelled, grabbing more items on his desk to be chucking, “Get out!” he screamed, at his son who began running away, “Get out, and don’t come back until you’ve returned with one woman, or both!”