Stately Talks

Music hung in the air and weaved between the finely carved and painted wooden pillars that appeared to hold up the night sky itself.

“Wonderful isn’t it?”

“Hmm?” Sir George said.

“The ceiling,” Ambassador Hugo said, “the attention to detail is like none else in all the world. I have to imagine it’s a more welcome sight than the Fenlands. Wonderful that you were able to make it back in time to join us.”

The trapped knight looked up from his drink at the ceiling in question. He hoped the gesture showed enough of an interest that the Ambassador believed him to be more involved in the conversation than he in fact was. Across the whole of the great hall’s roof a perfect portrait of the night sky showed dim in the candle light. Within the painting itself the pillars that rose to support the canvas even seemed to disappear into the artwork. While nice for elves and their court, Sir George found little interest in it.

“It’s beautiful Ambassador, it captures the sky well.”

The elven official’s chest swelled slightly at the words, and the knight finished off his already half drunk glass of wine.

With that his attention shifted from his glass to the night's proceedings, more specifically, the servants with trays of drinks that moved about the crowded hall. To his dismay, none were in near proximity to him, and he couldn’t leave the Ambassador’s company yet for fear of causing a faux pas.

“I’ll tell you Sir George, none can match the artistic brilliance of elves, though specifically, we in Ro’Rucmund have a mastery even above the rest of our kin.”

The Ambassador turned his head to the side in a show of contemplative observation of the mural, as if trying to examine a new facet of it. Though in truth the elf viewed and studied it enough he could paint it from memory.

“The old masters of Gulverdam seemed equally skilled with a brush to my eyes, and that’s not even outside of the Broken Lands,” the knight said as he kept hoping for a servant to move closer to him.

“Well, to the untrained eye I’m sure that would appear to be the case, but to someone versed in technique and color theory I assure you. They are not in the same realm of mastery as the Westerly elves. Regal me Sir Geroge, what great achievements have the humans of Rotson given to the world? This is why we’re speaking, are we not?”

“The majority of the food that fill your people’s tables come from our farms, the timber to build your trading ships from our forests, and if I’m not mistaken every piece of glassware in this room come from our craftsmen,” Sir George said, punctuating his last point with a gentle flick against his empty wine glass. The ringing of it overcame the music of the hall for a moment before it faded.

Ambassador Hugo shifted on his feet, “of course, the good working people. You have a fine tradition of humble work, held in contempt by some, though never myself.” With the hand that held his own mostly full glass of wine he made an arching gesture. The motion caused some of the liquid to scale the wall of the glass and breached over the top, spilling onto the marble floor. Sir George watched the spill while Hugo paid no mind to the residual wine that ran down the outside of the glass and onto his fingers.

“Of course Ambassador,” Sir George said, his eyes shifted back to look again for a close enough servant.

As he did the current song faded from the eight piece string ensemble that provided the music for the Ro’Rucmund Ambassador’s Ball. The silence from them only lasted a moment before they started a traditional elven waltz.

A servant, who held no tray, approached the two of them and leaned into the Ambassador’s ear. They exchanged low words that Sir George could not hear. Once the servant withdrew Hugo turned his body toward the knight.

“Come Sir George, let us talk more away from the crowd,” he said as he motioned toward a staircase near the back of the hall.

The knight gave one last glance for any servants within ten feet with a tray of drinks, still none. Defeated, he turned to the Ambassador and nodded.

They walked together toward the staircase and ascended the flight to a balcony that encircled the hall. From here Sir George saw a full view of the night’s proceedings. Dancers filled the majority of the space. They moved around the hall in careful and practiced motions to the waltz that steamed out from the musicians.

Ambassador Hugo led them to an unoccupied section of the balcony where they stood shoulder to shoulder and looked out on the dance.

“So tell me Sir George, are the rumors I’ve been hearing true?”

“What rumors would you be referring to Ambassador? I thought I came here to discuss our nations’ trade, not rumors.”

“Well if the rumors could affect that trade, why not discuss both. Such as the ones of a king slowly withering away, his knights frantically looking for a missing prince, and a queen attempting a bloodless coup.”

“Have I appeared frantic this evening Ambassador?”

“Only when looking for a drink,” the official said, each man turned their head slightly to each other. They met for a moment before they looked back out over the dancefloor.

Sir George watched the dresses of the ladies elevate from the floor in wide circles of brilliant reds, blues, and greens, as their partners spun them to the music. The well timed footfalls of each step blended perfectly to the music, and made it appear as if ghosts danced atop the air due to the lack of sound from the wonderful display.

“We make no secret that the prince has been missing this past month, and true to our duty we search for him. As if we would no matter the state of the Kingdom. As for the rest, a simple spring time fit of pollen or lovers' quarrel can be viciously transformed through word of mouth to these other things. For I have no idea what you’re referring to.”

The refined features of the elf curled from their neutral expression into a faint smile, “that’s the pesky thing about rumors, no? They take something true and make it far more interesting, a bad habit of people with too much time on their hands. Though, for someone who’s practical, from a people who understand thankless work, the truth is often more useful.”

“What are you getting at Ambassador? We’re alone, just speak plainly,” the knight said, his practiced courtly mask pulled back slightly.

“What would it be worth to a king, in wonderful health, to know that his son remains alive and in, mostly, good health?”

Sir George turned to look at the Ambassador, a large flourish of spins from the dancers reflected a moment of brighter light up toward the balcony from the canvas of fine multicolored skirts extended from the spin’s momentum. Enough of a moment of light for the knight to see the level and cool expression of someone telling the truth, or an expert politician plying his trade for deceit. 

“I’d ask how someone came to know this information.”

The out of place smile on the elf’s face grew slightly.

“You’re not the only one well traveled in Gulverdam,” the Ambassador said and turned to look at the knight.

“Are you suggesting the prince is among the Fallen Lords?”

“I don’t know who his present company is, I can’t claim as much as that. After all, I’ve never known vampires to keep their guests alive that long. Though more and different kinds of people can be found in that city these days.”

His right hand clenched into a fist at his side as the elf made implications, though Sir George still couldn’t know for a fact if anything he said possessed any kind of merit with it.

“More rumors from the sound of it, when the prince went missing he was on his way to the Duke Quay off of Rotsonly, the opposite direction of Gulverdam. It’s far more likely he’s been lost in the Fenlands on his way there. A kidnapped prince is a far better story to those with not enough to do than a lost one,” he said, and slowly relaxed his hand as he worked to pick apart the Ambassador’s story.

A long pause extended from the elf, the music and the dancing filled more of the hall and further masked their conversation from any with an inclination for gossip.

“Do you know why this hall’s mural is the talk of artists the world over?” Ambassador Hugo said, and tilted his head to look up at the ceiling.

“Because it’s pretty to look at,” Sir George said as he glanced up for a moment, but quickly looked back down to watch the movement of the waltz as it neared the height of the song. Elven waltzes usually built to a final flourish and those dancing often tried to be the most impressive with how they concluded their dance. While he might not have liked attending balls, he appreciated those with skill.

“Blending, most people when they look at the pillars and see the color of them join the painting they think it starts near the top. Though they are wrong. The first paint the artist added to the pillars started five feet from the floor. Then for the next forty-five he meticulously painted colors that matched the natural tones of the wood, and shade by shade transformed it to the color of the night sky. It makes it hard to know the exact edge of the painting.”

“Though you know, because your eye is so keen you can see the line five feet from the ground where the artist started,” Sir George said as he heard the final swell of the music being.

“No,” the Ambassador said as he looked from the ceiling to the dance below them. “I watched the painter as he did it.”

The knight turned to look at the elf as the music crescendoed and dancers spun, dipped, and leapt off the floor. In another moment of decrescendo the music faded, and dancers took final moves to end their engagements. Applause came from the onlookers, dancers bowed to each other in thanks, and the violinist stood from the band and bowed low.

Hugo clapped for the song before he turned again to the knight, “you see, when you watch how they work, you know where the trail of breadcrumbs started, and the mystery transforms into appreciation for the craft.”

Sir George thought back, a month and a half ago when he helped oversee the Prince’s departure for the Duke Quay. In his mind he pulled from memory the faces of those that left with him. Trusted knights, members of court, and personal friends of the Prince. All known and vetted by the King himself.

“So Sir George, if you were looking to kidnap a Prince, when would your plan go into motion?” The Ambassador asked, and turned to look back over their shoulders. He raised a hand to signal to a servant waiting near the top of the staircase they came from. The servant bowed at it and turned to walk down the stairs.

“The ship’s captain,” Sir George said, “he sent reports for two weeks after they left, nothing out of the ordinary and telling us the trip progressed according to plan. Until they would have been passing the edge of the Fenlands, and the dispatches stopped.”

Hugo nodded, “seems a trusted source of facts. You knew him well?”

“No,” Sir George said, “he was sent by the Duke to ferry the Prince’s retinue.”

“The captain of an ally of Rotson, an old one at that. What’s not to trust? Sailing off in the sun, all waves and fond farewells. Must have been a sight to behold.”

“They boarded and left at night, as is custom when royalty leaves the capitol. It’s safer, easier to hide their movement.”

“I see, so you never saw this captain in the daylight.”

Sir George stewed with that thought as the servant returned from the staircase holding a tray with two full glasses of wine on it. He walked straight to the Ambassador, who took both the glasses from the tray. With another bow the servant turned and left.

“Well, not to risk assigning blame to the Duke, if I were planning on kidnapping a prince, that course of action would certainly delay discovery of the facts long enough to achieve the true aim of said kidnapping,” Hugo said as he offered one of the glasses to the knight.

Sir George took it, “true aim?”

“Come now Sir George, you don’t kidnap royalty for the sake of kidnapping. That’s just the first step to the real goal; ransom, political leverage, revenge, or simple sewing disorder.”

“We’ve received no ransom notes, or threats,” the knight said as he held the glass.

“Yet,” the Ambassador said as he drank off half his wine. “No note yet, perhaps the kidnappers are waiting for the right moment.”

The knight took a sip from the wine before he set the glass down on the railing of the balcony. He heard the band started up their next song and he looked back down on the dance floor as it filled up. Movement pulled his attention around the floor, he didn’t want to give Hugo the credit, but the Ambassador was right. He’d been too lost in the moment, and needed to think back.

“Ambassador,” Sir George said, his eyes turned to look down at the glass of wine. “We never sent word to Westerly that we were actively searching in the Fenlands.” He turned his body to look at Hugo. “Who told you I was there?”

The elf smiled, wide enough this time to pull his lips off his teeth. Two long fangs revealed themselves to the knight.

“Rumors aside, let’s discuss those matters of trade,” Hugo said, and pulled a sealed letter from his coat. Within the wax of the seal, two ends of a fine ribbon were secured, and looped on the length of the ribbon hung the Prince of Rotson’s signet ring.