Thanks again, Ghurlag. I'll try to fix a couple of the bits you mentioned. There's also another update, uncharacteristically quickly.
As you'll see, it seems we share at least some of the same ideas on what the themes of the story should be, which strikes me as a good thing.
Something I considered when polishing this for posting is whether a Dramatis Personae would be a good idea. I'm not normally in favour of them, but they can be useful as a quick memory jog to a character's identity, especially when updates come irregularly and at long intervals. Moreover, some of the characters are established background entities who are familiar to me but not necessarily to the reader; I might have forgotten to introduce them because I'll forget or assume the reader already knows who they are... If you think one would be helpful I'll put one together.
C&C (from everyone, not just Ghurlag!
) welcomed as always.
Ath***
Weyrother rose early in the hope of seeing Emmanuelle, but soon discovered she had departed at first light. Whether this was to hasten her arrival in Altdorf, or just to put as much distance between the two of them as possible, he couldn't say. In truth, he had not found the choice offered him a difficult one, despite his earlier protestations. Between Nuln and Pfeildorf, between the gorgeous Imperial palace and his own sunken shell of a house, there was simply no comparison.
Overcome by a strange feeling of ecclesiastical guilt on realising it was Festag, he summoned Albrecht Schneider, a rather sullen and hungover Kurt Heger, and a coachman to take him to the cathedral of Sigmar for the morning service. The journey from the palace to the temple district was short, but on seeing the platz before the cathedral thronged with people, Weyrother was glad he had not tried to make his way on foot.
A group of people immediately in front of the doors caught his eye in particular: about twenty young men, likely students from the university, waving placards about the Thumb Tax and handing out pamphlets. Some of them were waving crude caricatures of the Imperial court. It seemed the reputation of Mornan Tybalt's infamous tax had spread even further than the tax itself. Weyrother had not heard of any plans to introduce the tax in Nuln; as far as he was aware, it was only imposed in Altdorf, but here they were over a hundred miles away all the same. For once he was glad that his clothes were not quite as sumptuous as would be expected from Nuln nobility, as it attracted less attention from the protesters as he approached. Nevertheless, they jeered him as he tried to enter the church, and Schneider was forced to push past them, with some assistance from the temple guards. As he passed, one picture in particular caught his eye, depicting Emmanuelle and Mikael Hasselstein, the Emperor's Confessor, cavorting together, but he suppressed a swell of anger and continued into the church.
Away from the protesters, it was impossible to suppress a slight feeling of excitement as he entered the cathedral for the first time: this was the place, according to legend, that Johann Helstrum had first proclaimed Sigmar's divinity, even if the building itself was considerably more modern. Making his way up the nave, he noted the private boxes set aside for the great and the good of the city at the far end of the aisle.
All the great families of Nuln were represented, a reward for a generous donation to the cult. Weyrother passed the plaques denoting Toppenheimers, Pfeifrauchers, Wallensteins, Eyckes, Richtofens – needless to say, the Weyrothers had nothing. He was determined to make the most of Emmanuelle's hospitality, however, and brazenly took his place in the Liebewitz box. The design was such that nobody was supposed to be able to see inside, but even so it was clear that few of the city's aristocracy had turned out this morning. Perhaps they had been intimidated by the mob at the door, or perhaps they had just stayed up too late at the ball the previous evening.
Arch-Lector Krugar was absent, so the sermon was delivered by Capitular Esmer, an unremarkable-looking man, but one with a powerful speaking voice that managed to hold Weyrother's attention despite Kurt's sardonic comments whispered in his ear throughout. It was a slight disappointment that the cathedral was so empty: most of the pews were half-deserted, and many of the hymns sounded rather thin as a consequence, but Esmer appeared not to let that bother him, even if, Weyrother spotted, he made his way out of a side door at the end of the service rather than going back out into the square to contend with the protesters.
“Do you feel spiritually cleansed enough yet?” Kurt asked, when the last strains of music had died down.
“For another week or so, I suppose.”
“You're not going to drag me back here again next week, are you?”
“I'm not going to force you to come, although maybe your conscience should.”
Kurt snorted. “I'm happy to honour the gods, but I think the gods would rather I lived my life rather than spending two hours on my backside listening to a fat priest lecture me on the importance of asceticism”.
“Maybe if you actually listened to what he was saying, rather than just trying to spot set-ups for your punchlines, you'd get more out of it. Then again, I suppose that's devout in its own way. I'm sure I've seen some of your jokes in the
Life of Sigmar. They're certainly of that vintage, anyway.”
“Liturgical comedy. Maybe it'll catch on. I bloody well hope so; it can't be any worse than liturgical seriousness.”
As they exited the box, Schneider bowed, and presented a card, neatly printed, to Weyrother.
“I was given this for you, Lord,” he said, by way of explanation. “You need a valet.”
“He can't even afford a decent drinks cabinet; what makes you think he can afford a valet?” Kurt said, trying to peer at the card.
“You're as good a valet as I could ask for, Albrecht,” Weyrother said, looking down to examine the card.
“I'm flattered, Lord, but I'm the captain of your bodyguard, not a manservant. It's just embarrassing.”
“It's an embarrassment we'll have to put up with for a while longer, I'm afraid.” He looked up, flicking the card against his knuckles. “I've been invited to dinner.”
A meaty hand snatched the card from his grip, and Weyrother was startled by the large moustache of Bruno Pfeifraucher, regarding him with what seemed to be amusement.
“A dinner invitation, eh?” He glanced at the card. “By Molly Toppenheimer, no less. Sorry,
Etelka. She doesn't like it when people call her Molly, so make sure you do that repeatedly. You're in for a treat, it seems.”
Weyrother was privately glad for Pfeifraucher's interruption, since otherwise he would have had to ask one of Emmanuelle's staff to identify the card's crest for him. Standing this close to Pfeifraucher, he realised he was actually of a height with him, but there was something about the looming marshal that made everyone in his vicinity seem smaller.
“Baroness Toppenheimer?” Kurt said. “I've heard of her. Is she the one with eighteen children?”
“Twelve,” Pfeifraucher said with a straight face. “Six of them died.” His moustache twitched.
“Wore her husband out, from what I hear. There's a thought, Lothar. Maybe she thinks you could be the new Baron Toppenheimer.”
“Not for all the money in the world, lad,” Pfeifracher said, before Weyrother could reply. “Save yourself the trip, boy. The food at the palace is better, and so's the company.”
“You've dined with Baroness Toppenheimer before, then?”
“I've never been fool enough to take her up on the invitation. Take another look at the card, boy. It doesn't say who's dinner you're being invited to. She's going to eat you alive.” He handed the card back, clapped Weyrother on the shoulder and walked off, chuckling to himself.
“Friendly chap,” Heger remarked.
“Emmanuelle says I remind her of him.”
“You've never been as friendly as that. I haven't seen you smile as much in fifteen years as he just did in five minutes. Although -” he turned to peer at Weyrother - “maybe one of those moustaches would suit you. If nothing else it would hide part of your face.”
“Do you plan to accept the invitation, Lord? Shall I assemble the guard?” Schneider asked, giving no impression that he'd heard the previous exchange.
“I'll go. Alone,” he added, with a pointed glare at Kurt. “Let's see what Etelka Toppenheimer wants with me.”
He grinned. “If I don't come back, Albrecht, check her food bins.”
***
The Toppenheimer residence was so close to the palace gates that Weyrother left the guard at home and proceeded alone. The door to the house opened as he approached, and a valet stood ready to usher him inside.
“Good evening, milord,” the man said, eyes pointed firmly downwards. “If you would care to step to your left, lord, her Ladyship is expecting you.”
Weyrother duly took the door to the left, entering a dim room lit only by a handful of candles. It was difficult to tell how many occupants the room had, and he paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. He cleared his throat in preparation to introduce himself.
“I know who you are, boy. Come in, and stand in the light,” a voice snapped from the darkness beyond.
“I'm sorry?” Momentarily caught off guard, he froze.
“I want to get a look at you, boy. See who's pulling your strings.”
“Of course, my Lady.” He remembered his manners and took another couple of steps inside as requested. Surely the old harpy barking instructions at him so peremptorily could only be Lady Toppenheimer.
“Hm.” It was a statement of decision rather than a pause for thought, but it was impossible to determine what the decision had been.
“Time for dinner,” she announced, pushing herself out of the chair and beckoning him onward with a long finger. She had the slightly gaunt look of someone who has lost a lot of weight in a short amount of time; a process which seemed to have aged her beyond her years. The light made it difficult to tell, but it appeared her hair was grey.
She marched through to a room where a table was laid for dinner, and a number of children of various ages were already seated towards the foot, all silent and facing forwards. Without waiting, she took the chair at the head, waving away the servant who approached to assist. Weyrother waited a second to make sure he was not going to be invited to take his seat, and took his place at the remaining setting, to the left of his hostess.
The light in here was slightly better, and Weyrother saw that the lady's hair was not grey after all, but a sort of ash blonde; even his uneducated eye could tell that not much effort had been put into its preparation. Like her clothes, the hairstyle was practical rather than showy.
“My lady,” he began, pausing for a moment to allow her to request him to dispense with the formality. She did not. He pressed on regardless. “What did you mean about wanting to see who's pulling my strings?”
“Well, is it Leitdorf? Ludenhof? Emmanuelle?” She gave him another appraising look. “No, you're not one of hers. Not yet at least.”
“I am no man's puppet, my lady.” He tried to put some edge in his voice, but he worried it just made him sound nervous. “I'm my own man.”
She sniffed. “So they all say.”
A valet presented the first dish for her consideration; she barely glanced at it before nodding, and the servant began the process of decanting it for consumption.
“Sit up straight, girl!” she barked suddenly, and one of the children whose shoulders had started to droop shot bolt upright.
“You have to watch them at all times. Look away for a moment and they think they can get away with anything.”
“I wouldn't know, my lady.”
“Men never do. No wild oats of yours to grow to fruition, though? No dirty little secrets back in Pfeildorf?” His eyes widened in embarrassment, and she took that for an answer. “Shame. Good-looking boy like you, you should get that nonsense out of your system before you're married. If your wife has any sense, she won't tolerate any of that once she gets her claws into you. I suppose your father's example was instructive there.”
Weyrother fought down a reply. If there was one subject guaranteed to set his teeth on edge it was his father. Lady Toppenheimer seemed almost to smirk as she saw the mention had affected him. There was food on all the plates now and he covered his annoyance by taking a bite. He had eaten better, but it was superior to the usual efforts of his own kitchen. There was a momentary pause as they both ate.
“Do you know how many claimants there are to the crown of Sudenland?”
Before Weyrother could fashion a response, she continued. “I don't. I don't think anybody does. It's been so long that half the sheep in Averland probably have a claim. Toppenheimers; Mecklenburgs; Goetzes; Kalbs, if they decided they wanted it; Weyrothers; and let's not forget the Liebewitzes, who actually own the place. Those are just the easy ones.” She leaned in closer. “What do you have that they don't?”
“A better claim.”
She snorted with derision. “Just because your great-granddaddy diddled some Heugenloeuwd girl a thousand years ago you think that gives you a claim? Do you think anyone really cares about that? Possession and presence is everything, boy.”
“I'm here, aren't I, my lady?”
“In name, perhaps. Knock off that 'milady' nonsense, too, it just makes everything more tiresome to listen to.” She glared at him. “You weren't born in the province. You don't even hold a provincial title, do you?”
“Brockau and Ahresdorf.” Hochland titles, both of them.
“As I thought. I suspect you think you're desperately original, too, trying to win the province via the bed of the Countess. Don't think that hasn't been tried.” She glanced up, and snapped at another of her children. “Chew properly, Karl!” A pasty-looking boy looked momentarily startled, as she chuckled to herself.
“Poor old Katia Herbart. She let the old Count have his way with her for six years in hope of a title and all she got to show for it was a handful of whelps. Have you met Friedrich Herbart? Absolute spit of Leos von Liebewitz, not that her husband ever said anything.”
Weyrother felt a response was required, but could think of nothing to say. He settled for a polite but vaguely conspiratorial raise of the eyebrow.
“Now, your father, he could have got somewhere. Had a good eye for what needed to be done, and wasn't bad to look at, either. I'd have taken him myself, but he'd never have agreed to it. Too proud to be used as a stud, and too attached to your mother, too, for all the good that ever did him. Max von Weyrother, a prig. Who'd have thought it?”
Weyrother wondered if she was drunk, though no wine had been served.
“The point is, boy,” and he bristled at her reuse of that term, “your fancy name and history won't get you anywhere. Down here, you need to find the right people. Whether you kill them, you buy them or you screw them, that's up to you, but you need to know who they are, and you need to know
what you want from them.”
“I know what I want.”
“No you don't, not really. Do you want Sudenland, or do you want Emmanuelle? You can't have both.” She smiled coldly at his silence. “I thought so. You can use Emmanuelle to get Sudenland, if you think you can use her, which you can't. Her brain is the best-kept secret the Liebewiztes have. But if you want her, even if you get her, you'll get
her. Not a title, not a crown. She couldn't give you Sudenland even if she wanted to.”
“And if I want Solland?”
“Then you need to start making enemies as well as friends. Stop reigning over your imaginary province and start ruling it.” She prodded at a chunk of meat on her plate. “This horsemeat is overcooked,” she announced to the room at large.
Weyrother, who retained his Hochland tastebuds, felt his stomach turn slightly to discover what he'd been eating, although he realised that he wouldn't put it past her to say something like that just to discomfit him. He decided to try the direct approach.
“What's it to you? You said the Toppenheimers have a claim, so why aren't you petitioning Emmanuelle for the title?”
“Who's to say I'm not? Not just Sudenland, either, but the whole of
dreary Wissenland.” She captured perfectly the inflection that Emmanuelle used when describing the province.
“So why are you giving me this advice, if you want the place for yourself?”
“The game doesn't work unless everyone knows the rules. Besides, if I can't get the province for one of mine -” she waved a hand at the children towards the foot of the table, “I need to know who to support.”
It seemed they were talking plainly now. “Your support, then,” Weyrother replied, flatly. “Could I count on it, in such an eventuality?”
“I can't answer that until you answer my question earlier. And don't bother to answer now, because I know you'll just say whatever it is you think I want to hear.”
“And when I know the answer?”
“I'll know.” He had a feeling she would.
“One more thing,” she said, placing her cutlery down with an air of finality. “I absolutely will not deliver Sudenland out of the hands of Nuln and into the hands of Averheim.”
“As I said, I'm not Leitdorf's puppet.”
She sounded almost sympathetic in her reply. “My dear boy, with the state you're in, you wouldn't even know if you were.”