Trollheart

She considered drawing back, slapping him for his impertinence, but she wasn’t altogether sure his mute giant guards might not take that as a sign of an attack upon their master, and then, well, she could be in real trouble! It would be some moments before any Blues could arrive here, and even then, she felt none of the locals would be a match for one of these brutes, never mind three. By then, her head would most likely have been sundered from her body, which really did not fit in with her carefully-laid plans. Instead, she gently but quite firmly removed his hand, and then, attempting to steer the conversation into calmer waters, remarked “You seem to have quite a thirst, Mastra. But then,” she allowed, “it is uncommonly hot today.”

He barked a sharp laugh in which there was no mirth, just contempt and disdain. “Hot?” he repeated. “Hot? You call this hot? Why, on a day like this, back home people would shiver and draw close to their fires, and wonder when summer was due. I assure you, Lady Beatrice, if you but once experienced a summer - even a spring! - in Tal Ranathat, my home city, you would never call such weather as today hot. Hah!” He shook his head, as if at the stupidity of a child. “Hot!” he repeated, then, looking at the guards, rolled off a stream of unintelligible syllables in his native tongue, to which the men responded by grinning. They probably would have laughed, but it’s hard to do that without a tongue. Whether they found what Zamakis had told them (presumably he was relating how the stupid bitch thought it was hot today) funny or not, they doubtless followed that old maxim: if the boss thinks it’s funny, it’s funny. No doubt, had he expressed sadness or anger, they would have been mirrors of his emotions; whatever was required. Men like these had little need of independent thinking.

Or tongues, she thought acidly.

But her attempt to change the subject had served its purpose in diverting Pent Zamakis from his amorous attentions towards her, and now she declared, in a clipped, businesslike tone (if nothing else, to dissuade him from further advances) “Well now, Mastra Zamakis. You have travelled far and given of your valuable time to me, so shall we discuss our arrangement?”

And so they did.

On the way back to her home she questioned everything. Was she doing the right thing? Could she trust the man? Would this work? She had a thousand doubts, but could really see no other way out of her predicament. She did not like it, but it was a necessary evil, and if she must make this pact then so be it, as long as it achieved the desired effect. Other thoughts came to her mind too, particularly related to the letter she had been reading before departing that morning, but she shoved them to one side, as she had then. There was no time for personal issues at the moment. Such things could be dealt with later. Right now she must concentrate on her plan, and hope that it worked.

She felt a little isolated, a little lonely without anyone to share her plot with, but nobody else must know. For this to work, only she must be privy to the details. Zamakis was not a stupid man - he was cruel, arrogant, dismissive, almost certainly a murderer - but not stupid. He had not survived as long in the logging game as he had without understanding the nature of business transactions, and this was just that. He wanted something, she had it, and he would in return give her something she wanted, that he did not have, but could deliver into her hands.

Was she being a fool? she asked herself, not for the first time. Why was she going to all this trouble, taking all these risks? What did it benefit her, in the long run? But deep in her heart she knew the answer, and it was simple and plain as the sunrise. And it was enough for her. If her plans fell apart, and what she hoped for did not come to pass, then she would face that failure when it happened, and not anticipate it. Optimism was the only course she could follow now; perhaps blind optimism, but she had laid her plans carefully enough that she believed there was a very good chance of all working out. There was also, of course, a chance that everything could come unstuck, all come crashing down about her ears, but that was a risk she was willing to take.

She would risk anything, for her.

The horses pulling the carriage cantered through the huge iron gates that formed the boundary of the grounds of her home, and clopped their way up along the wide, winding pathway that led up to the door of the mansion. All around her the scent of honeysuckle, jasmine and red roses perfumed the air, and bird sang in the trees which lined the avenue, the faint plop of fish moving in the small lake just barely audible in the distance. As the carriage drew up outside the door she noticed with sinking heart there was one there already, and knew what to expect. She recognised the emblem engraved on the side, and even if she had not, the words Galt and Simpson, Attorneys-at-Law, made plain the purpose of its passenger’s visit. She sighed, and passing coins to the driver of her carriage dismounted and swept in the door.

She had the poor timing to encounter, as she entered, the tall, spare frame of Saul Galt, senior Partner at the law firm of Galt and Simpson, who bade her a curt “Good afternoon, Your Ladyship” as he stalked by. Had Lady Beatrice been unaware of Saul Galt’s profession, she might have taken him for an undertaker. He was very tall and thin, almost to the point of seeming emaciation, with a narrow head which sported a narrow, curved nose which always put her in mind of a bird of prey; dark, unblinking eyes, hard as flint, and a thin, almost lipless mouth that she had never, in their twenty years’ association with the firm, through good times and bad, witnessed turn up in a smile. Galt wore a tall hat which if anything only reinforced the misidentification of him as a man who made his living burying the dead - Saul Galt and his partner were more in the habit of burying the living, under piles of paperwork and legal jargon, and many a man and woman had died under such a burden - and his long, dark coat flapped as he hurried from the house, like dark wings, again giving him the aspect of some bird of prey. A vulture, she had long decided, suited him best.

Passing into the hall, she was greeted, with much more sincere regard, by her maidservant, who took her cloak and hat and withdrew, giving way to another who appeared, almost as if on command, with a tray on which rested a tall tumbler of liquid. She sighed, indicating down the long dark hallway.

“The library, please, Susan,” she said, not looking up, and beginning to walk in that direction so rapidly that the servant had to move herself, to ensure she did not accidentally walk into her. “I have much research yet to do today.”

Privately, Susan thought to herself that it was very warm indeed today, and it would suit Her Ladyship far better to be out in the garden, that whatever books she required could easily be brought out to her there, but traditionally servants are supposed to only speak when spoken to, and as there had been no room in Her Ladyship’s order for ambiguity or question, Susan kept her thoughts and her opinions to herself and scurried to do as she was bid.

Beatrice had only managed to make her way through two pages of A Cry For Help: An Indictment of the State of Women’s Rights in Nabicon before the library door crashed open and a figure stepped through, a figure she knew all too well, though she might wish she did not.

“Where the hell have you been, woman?” snapped the newcomer, a man, standing with his hands on his hips in an attitude that demanded attention, and more, response. She did not look up from her book; in fact, as she spoke she carefully wrote something down on a pad beside her, before turning the page.

“I went out to see a friend,” she lied. “Is there a problem, Nathan?”

“ A friend!” The sneer this Nathan greeted her answer with spoke volumes. “You don’t have any friends, Beatrice. Not any more. All your friends have abandoned you.”

“Have they?” She affected a bored, unconcerned attitude, though she knew her husband was correct. And despite her attempts not to show it, fuck it, it hurt! But she would be damned if she would let Nathan see that. She looked up at him now, and smiled. “I suppose they were never really my friends after all then, were they?” she asked rhetorically. “If they could forswear me over such a small thing.”

“A small thing?” Her husband’s fury could perhaps have been likened to that of Pent Zamakis, but whereas the latter had held, due to convention and necessity, his peace, Lord Wetherwood was not similarly constrained. She was in his house now, and a man was master of his own household. He could do whatever the hell he liked. Within the law, of course. He reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her in the act of turning the page, wrenching it so forcefully that the paper tore. She frowned. Unlike when the Calathenean had performed a similar invasion of her privacy earlier, she felt no compunction in snatching her arm free, adding a glare at him for good measure. “You call what you did a small thing? You - you …” Words seemed to fail Lord Wetherwood, and he drew his hand back, fire in his eyes.

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Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018