Diego looks up from the papers scattered across the battered table which is serving as the only desk in the office. On seeing Nerita, Sefu, and Felicity in the doorway, he stands, nearly knocking over the equally battered chair. He has to move around the boxes of papers, uniforms, and other assorted supplies and gear stacked around the room. Nerita surveys the chaos with a rapidly deepening scowl.
“Still no furniture?” Diego sighs, “No furniture, no cleaning or laundry service... we're only getting meals because Joey and Ivy spoke to the head cook directly. Much as we're used to doing all that sh*t ourselves, it's f***ing ridiculous.” “Beyond,” Nerita is more than willing to agree with the sentiment, “Come with us, please.” Diego ensures the office door is locked before accompanying Nerita, Sefu, and Felicity up to the throne room. Court isn't in session, but the monarch is seated on his throne. Crown Prince Derian is standing nearby, his expression hard to read. Facing the monarch is the captain of the palace guard, who looks upset and defensive. The monarch looks past him as Nerita leads those with her over to the group. He indicates for Nerita to be seated on the other throne, which she is very relieved to do. As Felicity moves to stand just behind Nerita's seat, the door opens again, this time to admit Ford. Diego can't quite conceal a wince on seeing Ford's expression. “Now,” Monarch Reginald's eyes pass over the men standing before him, “This situation is becoming utterly ridiculous. My orders are to be obeyed, regardless of what they are or on whose behalf they're issued.” Han's expression grows stormy. The monarch turns to Diego, “Has anything been done as requested?” “No, your majesty.” “Have you been able to get any of what you need?” “Some things.” The monarch returns his attention to Han, “Is there a particular reason for this continued subversion of my orders? I presume if you aren't doing it yourself, you know who is.” Han's eyes go to the floor. “You gain nothing by this,” Monarch Reginald continues, “But I don't think you understand just what you have to lose.” “You think it possible to replace me?” Han's expression turns skeptical. “The Sword certainly does,” Ford speaks before anyone else can, “It also considers Her Majesty's Guard a necessity, whether you agree or not.” “Her Majesty's guard hasn't been necessary in centuries,” Han's scowl returns, “And the Sword hasn't either. Why anyone would listen to some fancy piece of metal that's been out for reality for so long...” He breaks off as Ford's expression turns dangerous. Even as Ford starts towards Han, Diego, recognizing the potential for trouble, moves to intercept and ends up having to block a blow which nearly knocks him down. When Ford tries to move around him, Diego applies the quickest, dirtiest take down he knows. As he does, he turns to catch his wife's eye. Felicity nods, clearly understanding the silent communication, and comes over to help Diego pick Ford up and remove him from the room. Out in the corridor, Ford slumps against the wall, still scowling, but not attempting to fight either of the other two. Finally, he straightens up, turning to Diego. “Thanks.” “Let me guess,” Diego grimaces, “He's been pissing off you and the Sword?” Ford nods, “Fairly consistently for months now. Unfortunately, he's right about being hard to replace at the moment.” “Well,” Diego takes a deep breath, “Much as I know the Sword wants to see this taken care of, let me deal with it.” Ford nods again, “You two should get back in there. I'm going home for a bit.” He walks away while Diego and Felicity return to the throne room. She returns to her position behind Nerita while her husband addresses Han. “Do you know what the term berserk means?” Han frowns, “What...?” “You're real lucky I know Ford an' his history as well as I do,” Diego continues, “Have you ever been in a serious fight in your life?” Han looks away, making no attempt to answer. “Certainly not in many years,” Derian speaks up, “Is Ford still here?” Diego shakes his head, “Better for everyone involved if he's away from here for a while. You really don't want to know what he's capable of when he loses it.” Nerita chuckles grimly, “I can take a guess.” “Anyway,” Diego returns his attention to Han, “I don't think you quite understand the situation. I can't save your *ss if there's a real attack on anyone here 'cause I have my own job to do.” “Very true,” Monarch Reginald sounds stern, “And you need the resources and equipment you're supposed to have in order to do that job. How long until your people begin to arrive?” “Two days, your majesty.” “Do you have enough of anything to feed, clothe, or shelter as many people as you're expecting?” “Not even close.” The monarch nods to himself, “That needs to change now. I will be reissuing all orders for the cleaning and furnishing of your wing, to be completed today and tomorrow. If there is any interference, I want to know immediately. I also want to be sent a message once the work is completed to your satisfaction.” “Yes, your majesty.” Diego bows his head. At a sharp inhale, all eyes go to Nerita. Derian moves to her side immediately. “Still...” Nerita is only breathing shallowly, “False labour.” Derian frowns, even as he nods. Monarch Reginald returns his gaze to Diego, “I suspect your time to prepare will be limited.” Diego just nods.
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Derian speaks up, “So what more is going on?”
“Increased anti-monarchy activity all across the continent,” Ford scowls, “The monarchs in Ouestlun and Midkingsen won't even acknowledge the Sword right now. Their heirs are somewhat more willing, but also currently restricted in what they can authorize. That will change in time, but here in Norsecount, something needs to be done.” “The MSS?” Derian queries. “The director claims he has neither the manpower nor the resources necessary,” The monarch looks grim, “The situation is such I can justify increasing his resources, but how to do that in such a way as to ensure the funds go where they ought. Too often MSS 'special projects' cause as many issues as they resolve.” Ford snorts, “Norsecount's been at relative peace too long.” “What about adding a new branch specifically to tackle the issue?” Derian suggests, “If it could be headed up by someone with experience dealing with these people, such as a grad of Experiment Redemption...” “Be best,” Ford nods to himself, “Natalia might have some thoughts on who would be available to take the position.” “Oh, undoubtedly,” Monarch Reginald grimaces, “Still, it's the best suggestion made yet. Probably best if said branch employs Experiment Redemption grads from the top position on down. Save on some training.” Again, Ford nods, “An' that will help with information gathering an' a few other things, but the Norsecount Militia Reserve needs additional training... before you start seriously losin' people.” The monarch nods, “While I know the commander isn't a fan of yours, it might be best if you're in on that discussion. I have no idea what more they could be taught which would actual serve to help. Is there anything else?” “Her Majesty's Guard needs reviving.” Ford looks serious, what of his face can be seen around his dark glasses. Monarch Reginald nods to himself, “Protection specific to the monarch's consort and her children. I have a feeling that won't go over well in certain quarters.” Nerita adds, “If you think I'm gonna trust the general run of those from Arawn with that kind of training...” Ford snorts laughter, “I'll have a word with Natalia regarding who might be available to serve as captain or captains. But how about carefully screened Experiment Redemption grads?” “Would be better.”
“So you see, ladies and gentlemen, until the ownership of this knife is confirmed...” The overseer of Cold Pass Castle pauses mid-sentence as a knock is heard on the chamber door. “Come in.” He calls.
The solid, wooden door opens just wide enough to admit a bland, rail thin aide, who bows deeply, clearly nervous. “Honored Chancellor, your majesties, Mr. President, sir, if you will excuse my intrusion...” “Get on with it.” The overseer interrupts impatiently. “Sir, there’s a woman here demanding to speak on behalf of the guard.” Surprise crosses the faces of the six world leaders seated at the round conference table. “Who is she?” The aide swallows; “She says her name is Mrs. William Hawklan, sir.” The red haired chancellor of the Pleasure Society glances across the table at the young monarch of Midkingsen. Both women nod briefly, then Chancellor Amanda Burren speaks. “I motion we hear what Mrs. Hawklan has to say.” “I second the motion.” Her majesty, Kallia, of Midkingsen quickly adds. “Any objections, your majesties, Mr. President?” The overseer addresses the other four seated at the table. Each shakes his head in turn. “Show Mrs. Hawklan in.” He commands the aide. A couple minutes later, an elderly woman enters, assisted by a cane. The castle overseer steps away from the table, allowing her to take his place. She rests one hand on the edge of the table as she inclines her head to those watching her. “My greetings and thanks to your majesties, Honored Chancellor, Mr. President,” Her words are pronounced in an unmistakable west continent accent, “I request you hear me out before rendering your judgement in this case.” “A few questions first.” West Continent President Evans requests, “Were you acquainted with the guard or the prisoner?” “The prisoner, sir.” “For how long?” His majesty, Robero, of Ouestlun asks. “Eighty-six years.” The strong clear voice does not hesitate. “Then you are aware that the prisoner was an old woman?” His majesty, Darius, of Norsecount queries. “Old in that she was passed her century birthday,” The woman pauses a moment, “The guard was young then?” “Between twenty-five and thirty.” The overseer offers. Mrs. Hawklan nods to herself. “Whose weapon was that?” She indicates a knife covered in dried blood on the table. “That has not yet been determined,” President Evans states, “There is insufficient evidence...” “What Mr. President means is...” Monarch Kallia cuts in. “What that means is clear enough,” The elderly woman looks around the table at the six world leaders seated there, “That is why I came. I believe that what I have to tell you will clear up a great many aspects of this case.” “Then you believe,” Begins his majesty, Ferdinand, of Estorika, “That the prisoner, whom you claim to have known, may be the guilty party?” “I do,” Mrs. Hawklan raises her hand to quell murmurs, “I do believe so in the light of what she has previously proven herself capable of.” “What exactly do you know of the prisoner then?” Monarch Robero inquires. “Her life story: From the circumstances surrounding her birth to the reasons for her imprisonment in Cold Pass Castle.” “Perhaps you might simply give us the conclusion to that story.” President Evans requests. “If you wish,” The woman inclines her head to the west continent president, “Whatever your verdict, justice has already been served.” “Perhaps,” Chancellor Burren observes, “We should allow the lady to tell her story from the beginning.” “Indeed,” Monarch Ferdinand agrees, “Such a conclusion requires the most complete explanation possible.” “A seat for the lady then,” Monarch Darius commands, “One hundred years makes for a long tale.” “More than that.” Mrs. Hawklan corrects gently as the overseer positions a chair for her, “My history begins with four people whose paths crossed time and time again.”
Helaine Ducot looks up from the paperwork cluttering her desk when someone knocks on her office door.
“Yes?” Her irritation at the interruption is clear in her voice. Her assistant, Duncan Wrout, opens the door enough to stick his head in. “Doctor Neil McAlsie is here for his two thirty appointment.” “McAlsie?” Helaine frowns, trying to place the name. “The archaeologist,” Duncan prompts, “The one researching the towers.” “Oh,” Helaine groans, “Him. Might as well send him in.” Duncan’s head vanishes. A moment later, the door opens wider to admit a sixty something man and two young women. The man, although slow moving and nearly bald, is respectably dressed in a new suit and dress shoes. The young women cause Helaine to suppress another groan. The first is petite with long white blonde hair braided after the east continent fashion. A single streak of black starts in the center of her forehead and disappears into the braid. She is wearing a sleeveless, fitted, black leather vest which reveals the tattoos on either shoulder, black jeans belted with what appears to be a martial arts black belt, and old slip on shoes. The second is taller with long, wavy blonde hair worn loose and long, crimson fingernails. Her outfit consists of a grey sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, shredded blue jeans, and biker boots. She also has a richly ornamented sword in a battle harness across her back. Both young women have an unusual, intricately designed earring dangling from their left ears. Helaine forces herself not to stare, but has trouble thinking of what to say. The man saves her the trouble. “Good afternoon, Ms Ducot. My name is Neil McAlsie. I appreciate your agreeing to see me so quickly.” “Good afternoon, Doctor McAlsie,” Helaine stands and extends her hand, “Are these your... assistants?” Neil shakes her hand firmly. “After a fashion. May I introduce Amy and Stacie.” Helaine manages a polite nod to each, but is slightly unnerved by the two sets of cold, hard, blue eyes fixed on her. She drops back into her chair, indicating for her guests to sit as well. The man does, but the young women remain standing. * * * The clock in the dashboard reads seven fifty-seven when Helaine parks outside the massive stone structure known as Gemstone Palace. She gets out of her car and approaches the main door to find four people waiting. Three, she identifies as Doctor McAlsie, Amy, and Stacie. The fourth is another young woman. This one is a little taller than the other two, although wearing an identical earring, and has shoulder length black hair. She is wearing a short, tight, blue t-shirt, black track pants, and worn running shoes. As Helaine gets closer, she discovers her to also have cold, hard, blue eyes. “Good morning,” Doctor McAlsie calls, “I’d like you to meet Lexa.” Helaine manages a polite nod before fumbling for the proper key. She notices Stacie is still wearing the sword and Amy is carrying a beat up backpack. Finally, she comes up with the key she needs and unlocks the door. After ushering them inside, she closes and locks the door carefully. |
AuthorAlexandra A. 'Lexa' Cheshire is the author of numerous novels and short stories published through Howling Wolf Books. Lexa is a wife, mother, cat owner, and music lover. Archives
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