Peek: Book 5, Chapter 3 (Patreon)

Earl Paulte Heindarl Bulifinor Magnamtir if'Gofnar

The carriage ride gave him time to collect himself, and he’s glad for it.  A sealed letter and a gigantic tree appearing had unnerved him, he admits, but he’s had the time to recognize the theater for what it was.  Dungeons simply don’t think in ways that have them show off.  They try to maximize their mana, and that’s really it.

Then who could have been behind the little show?  The answer is obvious: Miller.  His son’s butler and bodyguard would probably prefer to entertain a bilgerat than his noble self, but could he actually manipulate a dungeon like that?

It’s certainly more believable than a dungeon deciding to do that all on its own.  It’s remarkable the lengths the butler will go to for petty slights, but then again, when so far away from anything actually important, one will do what they must to entertain themselves.  But no matter Miller’s opinion, his fun will soon be over.

Paulte will soon reluctantly take the helm of Fourdock from his inexperienced son Rezlar, taking the weight from his nervous shoulders before he capsizes from it.  And once he has the wheel, he’ll be able to navigate a way for him to exploit the dungeon while also maintaining his other schemes.

He steps out of the carriage, his Head Maid Felicia quietly following.  The guards of the mayoral estate line the path, giving him what sparse honor they can.  Dregs, really, but it’s all they have to offer, so he can be the bigger man and pretend not to notice.  Miller stands at the doorway to welcome him, with his son nowhere to be seen.  Probably hiding inside, as he is wont to do, a nervous little fish hardly daring to leave his den.

“Earl Paulte Heindarl Bulifinor Magnamtir if'Gofnar, a pleasure, as always,” smoothly lies Miller, but this is not the place to call him out on it.

“Where is my son?” he instead demands, seeing no point in wasting politeness on the suited thorn in his side.

“Inside, awaiting you in the dining hall, sir.”

“Very well.”  He nods for Miller to lead the way.  Paulte might have put up more of a fuss if he wasn’t peckish.  His carriage has better than hard tack for him, but there is only so much that can be done with his chef cooking over a campfire.  His lips curl into a small smile as he recalls that there should be several bottles of sunwine available here as well.  His son was never much for alcohol, and the Earl never pressed him.  More for himself, and it’s simple to keep a supply of a few of his favorites in the estates across his earldom.

When announced in the dining hall, Paulte eyes the young elf standing there.  Where he expected to find a pale, nervous twig of a lad, he now sees a confident young noble, warmly greeting his superior.

“Father!  How was your trip?  Not too harsh, I hope?” he says, easily putting on a facade of geniality.  Paulte is no fool, he knows his son would like nothing more than to see his back, vanishing into the distance.  But that he can appear so collected and put on the noble mask of friendliness is a sandbar he did not expect to need to dodge.

But dodge it he does, and returns the warm greeting.  “Ah, son!  The trip was fine.  I’d rather the sway of a boat to the rattle of a carriage, but even your father can’t have everything his way.”

He takes his seat and is genuinely happy to see the bottle of sunwine waiting for him.  Felicia doesn’t miss a step and pours it for him, and he takes a relaxed sip before continuing.  “How have things been going here?  I’ve been hearing rumors, which is why I came.  I was worried for you,” he lies, keeping up appearances for the servants around.

Rezlar smiles.  “Things have been busy, but well.  I’ve been forced to take the helm, rather than letting the winds and waves drift Fourdock where they may.  It was difficult at first, but I’m managing, with a bit of help.”

Paulte manages to keep from rolling his eyes.  If the lad’s managing, it’s because Miller wants him to think he’s managing.  Any troubles will be quietly dealt with before Rezlar even knows it’s a problem.

“Well, now I’m here, you won’t need to worry.  You can return to your pursuits while I work to guide Fourdock.”  He smiles around his wine as he watches Rezlar.  His acting has improved, but he’ll still take any chance to duck responsibilities and expectations, and return to his quiet isolation.

“I’m afraid I can’t, father.”

Paulte nearly spits out his wine, but decades of practice keeps his reaction down to a simple pause.  He calmly swallows his drink and sets down the glass.  “No?” he asks, his tone like a shark eyeing up a tuna.  Has he gotten so overconfident in the shallows that he thinks he can handle the depths where the true monsters wait?

Rezlar nods.  “No.  If you have any broad plans you’d like accomplished, I will of course work to do them, but I am the captain of this particular vessel, even if you are my admiral.”

“And as your admiral, I desire the helm.”

The smile on Rezlar’s face is one Miller must have taught him.  It’s far too infuriating to be otherwise.  “Are you abandoning your flagship for a dinghy, father?  You are, of course, free to move the seat of your earldom as you see fit, but you’d abandon Gofnar Lake and the established routes there for my small town?”

Paulte scowls.  “I don’t need to move my seat to plot a course for Fourdock.”

“Not to plot it, no, but if you desire to steer the ship, yes.  No matter how fine a captain you are, you don’t know these waters like I do, father.  I’d be remiss in my duties to you and to the Crown if I were to simply step aside.  You don’t know which hands are on deck, what their specialties are, where the reefs and sandbars hide.”

The Earl takes a deep breath and another sip of wine, glancing at Miller who looks extremely pleased with how things are going.  Yet another petty slight, but this time not one so easily ignored.

“To be clear, you are citing local nobility privilege to refuse to hand over control to me?”

Rezlar nods, still looking politely happy, as if they’re merely discussing the weather.  Paulte suppresses his frown as he considers his next step.  In the military, it’d be called the chain of command, but the nobility has a similar concept.  Those above give demands to those below, and those below fulfill them in the best way they can.  Much as it galls him to admit, he doesn’t know the intricacies of this town… yet.

He lets a small smile grace his lips, a father proud of his son for finally finding his sea legs.  “And here I thought you hated being in charge, and was doing you a kindness by offering to shoulder it.  But if you insist, I’ll not press.”  At least not right now.  “It’ll give me more time to ensure my new adventurer’s guild establishes itself properly.”

Rezlar nods.  “The delving here in Fourdock is much improved this last year, with no fewer than three dungeons within a short walk from here.  There’s also the Southwood, but it’s still a few day’s journey away, even with work being done on improving the path there.”

The conversation soon transitions to the typical small talk of nobility, speaking quite a lot while saying as little as possible.  That suits Paulte just fine, as it gives him the chance to consider his plans.  He needs Fourdock under his direct control if he’s going to leverage its new exports to his benefit.  He simply has too many interests outside the kingdom to let the dungeons here potentially upset his monopolies.

And with the Hold under construction, he actually may move his seat here, once the sea routes are flourishing and the Hold finished.  Gofnar Lake may be a trading hub for this continent, but in its prime, Fourdock was a hub between continents.  If he wants that wealth, he needs to establish himself here.

He needs to chart these new waters and see where the dangers lay.  One of the foremost is standing next to his son, silently refilling his glass as needed, and keeping an eye on the Earl.  Miller is certainly behind Rezlar suddenly finding his courage, but he’s tossed the lad into dangerous waters.

It may be time to quietly remove them both.  Not right now, of course, but it may be time to prepare.  Which also means he needs to prepare to meet someone else.

Thieves guilds are the rats in every ship, managing to carve out their little territory and surviving simply because eliminating them would just mean new ones would move in.  Ship rats are only good to feed the cats, but thieves guilds have the sort of information polite society pretends is worthless.

But anyone in a position of power knows they are excellent for when one needs to move in the shadows.  He exchanges pleasantries as he plots his course.  He’ll need to contact the local thieves guild.  If his son won’t simply hand over the helm, he’ll have to take it.  He can’t toss him overboard himself, of course… but more than one captain has gotten into his cups and fallen into the sea at night, with none to witness.

A tragic fate, but not an uncommon one.