Vigil's Valor: 43 - Practiced Indifference

“I look like a goddamned clown,” I growled at Kerra.

It was true. I knew because Cal couldn’t stop laughing whenever he thought I wasn’t looking. He also openly laughed in my face whenever I was looking, just to be a dick.

“On a scale of Bozo to Ronald McDonald,” Cal said, “I’d probably rate you as Krusty the Clown—depressed, possibly alcoholic, overflowing with regret. Honestly, I’m glad I’m already dead so I don’t have to be seen in public with you.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Kerra replied, casting a withering stare at Cal. “This is the current fashion. Trust me, you’ll blend right in with the rest of the nobles.”

That was easy for her to say. She was decked out in a low-cut, green satin gown that accentuated her features and showed off a generous portion of pale skin. Her hair, which she usually wore up in a ponytail, now cascaded over her bare shoulders and perfectly framed her face. Assorted rings glittered on her fingers and a matching gold and diamond pendant dangled between her cleavage. She looked like a princess stepping out for a night of drinking, dancing, and political debauchery.

I, on the other hand, looked like her court jester.

My pants ended at the knees and the material fit as snuggly as a pair of Spanx, showing off every nook and cranny in excruciatingly painful detail. I had a full-on mooseknuckle that left absolutely nothing left to the imagination. Every wrinkle on my nutsack was rendered in 1080p high def. And the rest of the outfit only made things worse. I had on white stockings, weird black clogs, and a red and gold silk shirt with sleeves that were so puffy, they looked like I was smuggling party balloons. A stupid, foppish hat with a jaunty peacock feather completed the look.

I’ve never tolerated bullies, but one glance in the mirror and I wanted to kick my own ass then give myself a swirly for good measure.

I’d pleaded with Kerra to let me wear something more practical. Like armor. Or the skins of my enemies. Or even nothing at all. Honestly, being butt naked would’ve been less embarrassing. But nope. She insisted that the Royals had an exceptionally strict dress code. The policy was stupid and about as effective as half a condom, since I could just use Armor Evocation whenever I wanted too, but Kerra insisted I follow the rules for “appearances sake.”

She’d also made Renholm stay behind.

I’d wanted to use the Pookah to run recon and sniff for any clues inside the palace, but apparently the Fae weren’t well-loved by the royal family. They were considered security risks, which, in Renholm’s case, was probably true. He would’ve made off with half the gold in the Palace given half a chance. Since I couldn’t bring him in, I currently had him keeping tabs on Nazer Maux, the hellfire and brimstone Arbitrator who’d nearly killed Renholm with his wards. I was ninety-percent sure Nazer wasn’t the shitheel behind these attacks, but I wasn’t ready to rule him out entirely.

I just hoped that Renholm didn’t “accidently” set Nazer on fire in retribution.

Kerra, Cal, and I passed through the outer curtain wall and headed up an expansive walkway which carved through a lush garden, complete with a tangle of vibrant roses, a neatly manicured hedge maze, and an oversized marble water fountain depicting the current king sitting astride a rearing horse. Or, at least, that’s what the king had looked like fifty years ago, Kerra told me. Now he was a frail old man who rarely left his bed.

The castle itself landed somewhere between medieval fortress and grandiose European cathedral. There were lots of graceful archways, intricately chiseled colonnades, flying buttresses, and elaborate stained glass windows, depicting the illustrious beginnings of the Skovgaard Dynasty. The palace didn’t come close to rivaling the Citadel, but it seemed pretty obvious that the royals had given it the good ol’ college try.

The fact that they had failed so spectacularly probably irked the shit out of ’em, too.

Archers with heavy-duty crossbows patrolled the ramparts and more were positioned inside strategically placed guard towers with narrow windows. To enter the palace proper, we had to pass through a formal “carriage house” where livery-clad servants helped arriving nobles dismount from their horses or climb down from their gilded coaches. The carriage house provided protection to arriving guests from inclement weather, but it also served another purpose. The murder holes pockmarking the ceiling above would be perfect for dumping vats of hot oil onto uninvited guests.

The remaining guards had stepped up their security efforts considerably after the last Aberration attack.

An older, stuffy man with sunken eyes and a receding hairline greeted us at the door. Unlike the last fancy party I’d crashed, I didn’t have to talk my way into this one. Kerra had an invitation and was on the list—although the pompous douche did regard me solemnly when she told him I was her plus one. He eyeballed every inch of my ridiculous outfit before finally nodding with a contemptuous sniff.

“It’s dated and a little understated, but I suppose its technically serviceable. Enjoy the festivities, honored guests.” He waved us through and greeted the partygoers behind us with all the enthusiasm of a bored sloth.

Kerra hooked her arm through mine and ushered me through a grand foyer with a gaudy crystal-encrusted chandelier and into the royal ballroom. It was the biggest of three, she informed me in a whisper. When we crossed through the archway, a herald in a green and silver uniform announced us to a smattering of polite but bored applause. A few of the younger nobles offered us curious looks, but mostly we were ignored.

“That’s a pretty lukewarm greeting for the Justiciar of Training and the first Inkarnate in two hundred years,” I said.

“Oh, don’t let them fool you,” she said. “That’s just practiced indifference. Trust me, everyone is dying to come and talk to us, but with the current tensions between the Crown and the Citadel, most of them can’t afford to show any overt interest. Doing so could signal to the Heir Apparent or his supporters that they’ve taken a stand with us, which could be politically disastrous. But neither can they be rude and risk insulting the holy servants of Raguel.”

“So practiced indifference,” I finished.

“Exactly. It’s a fine balancing act. Despite the placid looks and the thin veneer of civility, be assured that this is a battlefield. These jackals will see slights and provocations in a single glance or tip of the head, and they will also gladly cut your throat if it means advancing their political position.”

“Check. So they’re basically like every other politician in the universe,” I said. “Got it.”

Honestly, I hoped every single one of these elitist assholes avoided me for the rest of the night. I had zero desire to schmooze and hobnob. The only thing I wanted to do was find the Heir, ask a couple of questions, then get the hell out of here before some drunk noble decided to impress their equally drunk friends by picking a fight with a Vigil.

I scanned the room searching for any sign of my target. I wasn’t sure what the prince looked like, but based on the security protocols out front, I was assuming he’d be the guy with an entourage of heavily armed guards.

“Cal, can you make yourself look like one of the servers?” I asked quietly.

“Dude, I’m a master of spirit. I can make myself look like a Sasquatch in a velour jumpsuit if I want to. Hell yeah, I can look like one of the servers.” He stuck out a hand. A silver tray appeared on his palm and his worn cammies faded away, replaced by the formal uniform of the attendants. “Mind if I ask why?”

“Most of these people won’t be able to see you,” I said, “but with this many nobles, at least a few are bound to be Magi or Steelborn. I want you to make the rounds. See if you can find out anything that might be useful. Just make sure to keep a low profile.”

“They’ll never even see me coming,” he said, drifting off onto the empty dance floor.

Some of the partygoers lounged around ornate rectangular tables, chatting and idly picking at a luxurious selection of foods. Others clustered together in tight clumps, talking furiously while occasionally casting nervous glances at the other groups. There was no sign of the prince, but Kerra seemed to know all of the other major actors by sight and was happy to give me a play-by-play since we had shit else to do.

“Those are the Hargreeves,” she said, nodding at a big group huddled near one of the banquet tables. “They’re the most vocal supporters of the Citadel and the only nobles who will be openly sympathetic to our cause. The older gentleman there”—she glanced at a tall, broad shouldered man with bone-white hair and a hard jawline—“is Lord Wycliff Hargreeves, the current head of the estate. He’s Steelborn and the acting Margrave of Wildspell.

“Even though he actively advocates for the Citadel, the man has an enormous chip on his shoulder and if he gets a few drinks in him, he’s likely to challenge you to a duel. Avoid talking to him if you can, and whatever you do, stay away from his wife, Lady Eleanor Hargreeves. She is almost eighty, but don’t let that fool you. She’s Steelborn too and twice as likely to challenge you to a duel as her husband. That or try to get you into bed.”

“And those are the guys that are on our side?” I asked.

“There’s a reason I avoid politics,” she replied with a grimace. “Hunting Mortka is far less dangerous. At least with them you know exactly who the monsters are.”

I stopped a passing server, grabbed a mug of ale, then slammed it. I needed a little liquid courage to see me through this mess.

“Now that group, directly across from the Hargreeves are the prince’s current favorites,” Kerra continued like a company commander, reciting an intelligence briefing. “The Menhennick’s. They’re relatively minor land holding nobles, but rumor has it that the prince is infatuated with the middle daughter, Lady Tamara.

“The prince is already married, of course, but Princess Jenifer hasn’t provided him with an heir yet, so their union isn’t likely to last much longer. Still, there are formalities that must be taken care of first—if he get’s caught having an illicit affair, things could get messy… Especially since Princess Jenifer is the third daughter of the current Kelkadian Queen. At current, the Menhennicks stand firmly in opposition to the Citadel.”

“Menhennick, I’ve heard that name before,” I mused absently, tapping the edge of my empty mug.

“I’m sure you have,” she replied. “The royal advisor who was killed by the Aberration was Lord Esben Menhennick, the eldest son. Probably another reason they keep shooting dirty glances our way.”

I caught one of them scowling at me. I offered a one fingered salute in return to let them know the feeling was mutual.

But it wasn’t just the Hargreeves and Menhennicks that were segregated into petty clicks and warring factions. Every group was like that. The Damsgaard and the Espersens. The Venebergs and the Mollers. The Ayshecombes and the Claimonds. Fifty different families, each presided over by senior patriarch or matriarch—dukes, earls, knights, freehold vassals—all with their own agendas and vendettas. Each house or clan kept to themselves, watching the others with barely concealed contempt.

Kerra also made sure to point out the two formal delegations present for the evening—an Ambassador of the Kelkadian crown and the Viceroy of the Virtarun Empire.

The Viceroy’s presence certainly made me sit up and pay attention. I had some working theories about who was summoning the Aberration, and the Virtaruns had the most to gain if Wildespell fell into civil disorder. They would be the ones to swoop in and set things “right” if everything went to shit.

Despite the distrust and standoffishness evident between the various opposing factions, there were also a number individuals who drifted back and forth between the groups. Kerra called them Armigers. In the complex social hierarchy of Wildespell, the Armigers were more elevated than peasants but less powerful than the hereditary blood nobles. In essence, they were free agents who worked as intermediaries, passing cryptic messages for the more powerful houses.

“It took them long enough,” Kerra said interrupting my train of thought. She pointed toward a group of colorfully clad musicians who were making their way toward a raised stage. “Get ready, because things are about to get very interesting.”

“What exactly am I getting ready for?” I asked.

“Just watch,” she said, sounding smug and self-assured.

The troop of musicians set up in short order and when the first note rang out in the air the entire ballroom broke apart in a flurry of frantic motion. The younger nobles from every house, clan, and faction took to the dance floor as one, while their elders looked on with brooding concern etched into the lines of their faces. Not but two seconds ago none of these people would even make eye contact and now they were pairing up like old friends.

“I told you,” Kerra said, “this is all a game to them and like any game, there are rules. None of the noble houses can talk openly amongst each other without drawing suspicion or tipping their hands, but those unwed and of marrying age are permitted to dance at these galas. They pretend it’s so they can court their peers, which is a lie like everything else about these people. Nobles don’t marry for love—they marry to consolidate political power. Some of these children are all but sold off to suitors before they’ve ever taken their first breath. But, for the sake of the game, the families all agree to this farce.”

Kerra seemed annoyed as hell, but honestly the whole setup was kind of genius in its own twisted way. If everyone danced with everyone else, then information could be passed, alliances could be formed, and deals could be struck without anyone ever being the wiser.

“It’s like one big shell game,” I said, watching the dancers take their positions on the floor.

“Precisely. The heads of household pull the strings while the younger nobles get a chance to practice their hand at the game. Married or not, it is also customary for the visiting dignities and honored guests to participate in the dance.” She grabbed my arm. “That would be us.”

Kerra peeled off from my side a moment later and pushed me toward a group of young women who were lining up nearby. They twittered and blushed as I approached. One, a tall blonde with a slim waist and enough cleavage to get lost in for days, stepped forward and offered me her hand.

“Inkarnate,” she said with a curtsey and a coy smile. “I’m Heiress Damsgaard and it would be my great honor to share the floor with such an esteemed member of the Citadel. Tales of your cunning and valor have already reached—”

“—Oh move over you tart, elfin-skinned beanpole!” A matronly woman barked, elbowing her way through the throng of young maidens. It was Lady Hargreeves, the woman Kerra had told me to avoid at all costs. “Go whisper you’re bullshite to someone who has an ear to hear. I’m sure the Vigil wants a real woman with some meat on her bones, a little fire in her spirt, and more than a bunch of pretty lies on her lips. Now scat, this dance is mine…”