Vol.4, Ch.2, P.10
In two days’ time did Torry know the viscount’s mind at last:
Ina had been beckoned to the lordly manor, and to this moment, had yet to return.
Though perhaps “beckoned” is putting it too kindly, for it was in broad daylight that her carriage was stopped and surrounded by Bartt’s minions, whose many hands then whisked the damsel away to the Tallien estate.
Soon thereafter had a missive arrived at Torry’s desk. Quilled by the viscount, its contents were as much as the fraught father could have expected.
“Dearest Ina and her companion, Carola, are in much need of care and comfort,” so the nobleman had writ. “I have extended my helping hand, and they have accepted. Their wish now is to heal within the hospitality of my household. As their faithful lord, I have but to oblige.”
Torry hunched over his desk and dug his face into his hands. Why? he grieved. Why must this lord go to such ghastly lengths? Just losing his own daughter was dire enough to Torry. But to have Carola caught in the snare, as well? Oh, indeed, it was two that were taken, for as it happened, the latter herself was a passenger in that ill-starred carriage.
Carola—a lifelong intimate of Ina, and as well, a daughter to a dear, yet deceased confidant of Torry. The young woman, too, in the employ of the Concern, and oft an aid to Ina in many matters. Such was their bond that the guildmaster very much saw in Carola a sister to his daughter. None of this went unspied by the prying mind of Bartt Tallien.
Torry understood well what would come next: negotiations. The expenses of the coming battle, the fate of the two women, all of it. And there would Bartt, in all his lordly compassion, show willingness for compromise—no doubt on condition that Ina and Carola be ever at his “beck and call”.
Oh, how it grated the guildmaster, that he must surrender to this very course of action, that his two daughters should be haggled over and bartered like bawdy harlots, that it was what else but base libido that had brought about this blasted affair. Yes, indeed, libido, for Ina and Carola were, in fact, famed throughout the fiefdom for their delicate and comely looks, a bounty of beauty that could never have gone long without lighting afire the viscount’s loins. Thus, from the beginning was this dread and bedraggled business merely, merely the lord’s taint of an attempt to bring them under his baldacchin.
Torry’s fingers quivered against his face. Such an incident had happened before a little more than half a year ago: Ina and Carola, kidnapped and made to nake afore the eyes and hands of a lusting lord. Of such a nightmare the viscount himself most certainly knew. Yet in spite of it did he dare snatch them off the streets, all to indulge his desires.
To his subjects, Bartt Tallien might have been the great lord of this land, a former mareschal full of honour. To Torry, however, what was he now but a man inhuman, dealing in deeds of the devil.
Torry frowned behind his hands.
What in hell was going on?
With these lords ill-leashed?
With these befouled fiefs?
With Londosius? This “sacred land”—sick and suppurating at the seams as it was?
As such woes welled up in Torry’s bosom, so did the tears in his eyes. Lament leaked from between his fingers. A full-grown man of hard-earned fortunes—forced unto a fool’s fate, and left here to snivel and sob. But amidst the mirk of his misery, there stirred a sound: a knock upon his office door. Torry bade the visitor enter at once, bothering not one bit to blow his nose nor wipe away a single tear beforehand. By this point, the man of much esteem had not the heart to sustain it, if even on the surface.
“Pardon, Guildmaster,” so greeted his guest: a young woman, and as well, a marvel of a mercenary. Lithe was the line of her gait, her figure fine like a feline’s, and with shoulder-length locks of tangerine tresses, she very well seemed a sun rising over a long and haunting night. “I’ve… heard the news,” she said carefully after closing the door. “I’m very sorry. The second time this’ll be; you must feel crush’d.”
“Crushed and ground,” Torry echoed. Uncovering his tear-sodden face at last, he beheld his visitor with a sigh—one deep with joy and drear. “Oh, good Frieda,” he said hoarsely. “Your presence alone calms this aching hour. But it is no remedy, I fear. Once before have you saved both dear Ina and Carola. But now… now…”
Frieda the freelance could but watch with pity as the man slumped back in his seat. “Master Torry,” she said after a pause. “How worries a father for his missin’ family, I can’t very well imagine. But your heart’s scarce alone in achin’—I worry much for ‘em, as well.” With that, Frieda stepped further forth and looked at the forlorn father straight in the eye. “Master. Let’s ‘ave ‘em back ‘ome. Soon, an’ swift.”
“Home…? Swift…?” Torry murmured, feeling a candle kindled in his bosom. But just as quickly did the dark thoughts return. “Oh… were it so simple.”
“Paramours” would be made of the maidens, not concubines to be caged in a harem. This Torry knew, and in that did he find some sliver of solace. Still, his fatherly heart howled for some recourse… only, there was none. Not aface so powerful a figure as a steward of Londosian land, in whose hands was now held the whole of the Roland Concern as a mere bargaining chip.
It was not that Torry was unwilling to part with all his purses to protect the two. No; why, he would do it in a heartbeat. Come what may, he would suffer all harm to himself to see them home safe and sound. But to sacrifice the Concern itself was out of the question. It was not simply some commercial entity, Roland; upon it depended numberless lives and livelihoods, and as its leader, Torry was most loath to destroy them each and all. And for their part, surely would neither Ina nor Carola consent to it, even if at stake were their dignity and deliverance.
Powerless, Torry simpered with surrender. And seeing such resignation, Frieda frowned, heartwrenched. “A few questions, then, if I can,” she said softly to him. “Few, but weighty, I ought warn ya.”
“…I mind it little,” consented Torry. “Well? What is it, my good Frieda?”
The guildmaster sustained his sunless smile as he looked to the freelance. His gaze was grim and glazed, like a sad soul made to answer afore a heavenly judge. Indeed, he very much seemed on the cusp of collapse.
“Master,” Frieda began. “What—er… Have you ever…”
Torry raised an eyebrow at both the freelance’s indecision and her ensuing silence. It was most unlike her. After a moment, Frieda straightened herself, gulped, and gave another go.
“…What… what think you, Master Torry?” she asked at last, slowly. “O’ this realm? O’ its rule? Is it run rightwise? Or…”
“…”
Silence returned. Frieda felt her palms perspire. But a moment, and Torry’s lips finally began to part.
“…‘Rightwise’?” he whispered at first, but then: “I daresay it is ‘rotted’, this realm. Down to its deepest!” Rue, or perhaps wrath, now resounded in his voice. “I’ve long thought this—known this. But for just as long have I played the pale-livered panderer. All the blind eyes turned, all the lip service paid… Deeds of deep debt, Frieda. And now… now the creditors are come to collect.”
“So I see…” Frieda murmured.
Torry, looking breathless, cocked his head. “You’ve asked quite the precarious question,” he remarked. “What’s sparked such daring? Curiosity, I wager not?”
The freelance shook her head. “I needed to know,” she answered, “as to whether we’re aboard the same boat.”
Wonder glinted in the guildmaster’s eyes. “You… loathe Londosius?” he asked back.
“I do,” Frieda answered clearly. “My line o’ work’s right bugger’d me with more than my fair fill o’ feckless silver-spoons an’ arse-witted author’ties. But…” she paused briefly in remembrance, “…those days down in Albeck—they’re what’s turn’d the milk sour.”
The Albeck incident.
After lord and son were served their verdicts was justice given its victory: the dissolution of House Albeck as decreed by the Crown. Destruction most natural, one could say. Yet to Frieda, Ina, and Carola, it was consolation much too meagre. The living nightmares they endured in the Albecks’ dungeon had never truly faded away. No; it was, to them, a crystallisation of lordly corruption, a sample of all that was unceasingly sick about Londosius and its leaders.
That the Albecks were mere products of such a realm and its machinations was something Frieda had known. Even then, she had chosen charity, to give her homeland of Tallien the benefit of a doubt and heed its high institutions, for in her heart yet remained some love for Londosius.
…Till dawned the day the two were taken yet again.
“‘Nother question,” Frieda said. “Roland’s recent report—a ‘rebel’ was writ ‘bout in it. But ‘ow true be such intell’gence?”
“My inspectors take pride in their profession, you’ll be glad to know,” answered Torry. “It’s as true as can be.”
“Well an’ good,” Frieda nodded. “Next one: what think you o’ Arbel, Master Torry? Now in Nafílim rule as ‘tis?”
“Arbel?” Torry mused. “Well, naught short of a wonder, that city. Well-governed, well-galvanised—even its weal was left unwounded by its taking. Indeed, its new Nafílim leaders can teach this tottering realm a thing or three, if I’m to be honest.”
Torry’s veins pounded. These were not words to be suffered in Londosian air, open or no. Yet here he was, chatting the treacher’s chat without so much as a hitch. Sure, the magnate was rather known for his own brand of bravado, but to any familiar ear, he might have sounded a blaze more brazen than usual, and for good reason, none of them would doubt.
“Now ‘nother; the second to last,” Frieda continued, more quietly now as she came nearer to the guildmaster’s desk. “Arbel’s new parliament… have ya got some channel to their ears, Master? A contact, a courier—a soul willin’ to send word?”
“I have,” Torry answered. “Why, many of Arbel’s magnates now serve as aldermen to that very parliament, and they and I go way back, you should know.”
“…I see. Then ’llow me the last,” the freelance said before drawing a breath. “S’pose, Master, that there be light at the end o’ this tunnel. But to reach it, ya must turn… an’ delve first the depths instead. Would ya?”
“Oh, Frieda, with all haste I would!” cried Torry, unable to tame himself any longer. “For those two would I brave the burning bowels of hell! And hurry thence to heaven on high and spit upon the god sat on its throne! I would! I will…!”
A whoosh of a motion, and Torry stood from his seat. His face seethed with both courage and concern, earning from Frieda a long gasp. Now was it her turn. Nodding to assure herself, she said on, “Then you’ll mind it li’l, to spare me quill an’ leaf? An’ your swiftest courier—one to speed to Arbel’s parliament?”
In the course of her words, a figure flashed in Frieda’s mind. Strong and tall, the only champion, by her measure, who can prove the hammer to smash this impasse. But then came another thought: literate of hand and eye though she was, this would be, in fact, the very first time the freelance has ever penned a letter. And to whom would it go but him.
The sudden realisation left the freelance curiously frazzled.
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