Threats & Promises

Duchess Noravia de Faulte stood on the dais and surveyed her playground down the end of her upturned nose. Officially the raised area was a designated spot at which she could receive the well-wishes and entreaties of her guests. In practice it served to give her an unrivalled view of the movements of the players before her.

Against an orchestral backdrop, her guests moved about the room. Many danced in the centre, moving in pre-determined motions to the agreed routine. Skirts swished. Feet stamped. Bodies came together and parted. Steps were executed in time to the beat with varying degrees of success.

By and large the antics of the dancers were innocent enough. Occasionally partners would linger longer than social decorum dictated, opting to fail to swap out in order to spend more time together, but the majority of these could be dismissed as purely carnal affairs with none of the duplicitous undertones for which the Duchess was continually on the alert.

About the outskirts of the ballroom, people milled. To the untrained eye, their movements would seem entirely random; a Brownian motion of Tauberians in a sea of chaos.

The Duchess was no novice. In her mind’s eye she kept track of the moving pieces, spotting plays long before they were made. Such foresight was the only way to survive - or, in the Duchess’ case, thrive - in Tauberian society, and she’d had many years to hone her skills.

“Your Grace?”

The Duchess did not need to turn to know who had spoken. The slippery voice, combined with the fact she had not heard its owner approach, meant it could be only one person. At least in this household.

“You have news for me, Creep?”

“Yes, Your Grace. The bird has arrived.”

The Duchess smiled. It was not a pleasant expression.

“Do keep your eye on our little chirper.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Out of the corner of her eye, the Duchess saw Creep give an obsequious bow and backed out of her presence. All about her, the mindless chirps and flutterings of her entourage continued as they observed the dancers before them. Their presence was window dressing. Every lady had to have other ladies accompanying her, after all. But, for all intents and purposes, Creep’s absence left the Duchess alone on the dais, an island of serenity in a sea of chaos.

“Introducing the Lord and Lady Felmet!”

The doorman’s cry attracted the Duchess’ attention and she shifted her gaze as two figures entered through the open doorway at the far end of the hall. The female was all feathers and frills, draped in bright colours with a peacock mask obscuring her features. Her voluptuous body was made more so by the gown that adorned it. Jewels glistened at ears, throat and wrists and long gloves concealed her hands and arms to the elbow. The male beside her was drab by comparison, thin to the point of being gaunt and clad in a black suit and top hat, with a stylised raven mask covering the upper half of his face.

The Duchess watched as the pair began to mingle. Lady Felmet led the way, arms extended as she greeted each acquaintance in turn. Pursed lips kissed the air on either side of each new subject’s head and the smile that split the visible lower section of the woman’s face was never too far away. Lord Felmet was far more reserved, following his lady wife about the room and delivering curt, mono-syllabic responses whenever a question was aimed in his direction.

Slowly the pair navigated the outskirts of the room, continually approaching the dais but at their own speed. The Duchess knew it was deliberate. To enter the dance floor without paying respects to their host was an insult, but no insult could categorically be said to have occurred if a guest took their time in doing so.

She quelled the spike of emotion that threatened to impose itself upon her. This was only to be expected, after all. Such behaviours that pushed the boundaries of social decorum without quite breaching it were commonplace. It was how she responded to such infractions that mattered.

“Noravia!” the woman exclaimed when she finally reached the Duchess’ position.

“Cynthia,” the Duchess responded, ignoring the woman’s intentional refusal to acknowledge her title.

The Duchess matched her rival smile for smile as they kissed the air, heads bobbing side to side and dresses never quite touching despite the voluminosity of Lady Felmet’s creation. It was like a dance, played out on a stage before a multitude of gazes, and the Duchess performed it well.

“How good of you to come,” the Duchess trilled. “I did wonder if you’d be able to make it after Lord Felmet’s recent…illness.”

Lady Felmet inclined her head. “He’s feeling much better, thank you for asking,” she said, though the Duchess had clearly done no such thing. “Aren’t you, dear?”

The man stood to the side and slightly behind the folds of Lady Felmet’s gown nodded brusquely. “Indeed.”

And that was that. No formal niceties. No comment on the efforts gone to host the ball. No gratitude for the invitation. No enquiry as to the Duchess’ own health. Just an, “indeed,” and then silence. The Duchess ignored him.

“And how are you, Cynthia dear?” she asked. “Are you keeping well?”

“As well as can be expected in these trying times. And yourself?”

“Likewise. These balls are a great distraction, though, aren’t they?”

“A distraction indeed,” Lady Felmet agreed. “Such a great distraction from the machinations and politics of the every day.”

In the Duchess’ mind’s eye, the pieces continued to move about the room. She managed a smile.

“One does need to escape those games every once in a while,” she agreed. “Please do enjoy the spread and let your hair down.”

And your guard, she thought, though she knew Lady Felmet would do no such thing.

“I hope not!” Lady Felmet trilled, reaching a gloved hand up to gently touch her curated tresses “It took long enough to get it up!”

The Duchess laughed. It was a hollow thing, devoid of any depth and sincerity, but it was all that was needed in the circumstances. Nothing was genuine here and the laughter was a minor lie in a sea of deception. Lady Felmet mimicked the sound and with a swish of her gown she departed. Lord Felmet trailed in her wake.

The Duchess glanced about the room. Despite the distraction her rival had provided, everyone was roughly where she had predicted they would be. Those that had strayed required only the most minor mental adjustment to place again in her mental picture of the space. 

And so it continued. Guests were announced, approached, were greeted and dismissed to join the throngs. Each one was like adding an additional object to the juggler’s repertoire. Very few were balls. Most could best be described as spiky. Some were downright lethal. Such was the nature of juggling. It was only exciting when the results could be fatal.

A high-pitched peal of laughter cut through the background cacophony of the ballroom. The Duchess’ keen eyes picked out the arresting form of Lady Felmet holding court to one side of the space. The expressions of the ladies about her were a mixture of confusion and sympathetic smiles, giving lie to Lady Felmet’s apparent joviality. This bird had bright feathers and a loud call, designed to attract attention. But why?

The Duchess scanned the far side of the room and picked out the drab shape of Lord Felmet slipping through a side door. One bird drew attention whilst the other one slunk away. Well, the Duchess knew how to deal with stray game.

Without a word to her attendants, she whirled and strode from the dais. A raised hand stalled those who tried to accompany her. She had no need for such toadies and soon she was out of the main hall and into the corridor beyond.

The space felt bigger than the hall, somehow, despite how small it was by comparison. The air was cleaner, the light less harsh and, when the door finally came to behind her, the sound was nicely muffled. It was as if she had not been aware of how oppressive the environment was until it was removed. Now she found herself in a dimly lit corridor, off which doors led to other aspects of her expansive abode. Tapestries and paintings lined the walls, more to emphasise her power and wealth than for any personal value they contained. Wealth was power; sentimentality gave your rivals hints at your weaknesses. No, those few items she did hold dear were stored far more privately. Far more securely.

Despite the heels that adorned her feet, the Duchess moved silently down the corridor in swift, confident strides. She knew where Lord Felmet would be heading and knew just how to get there. The passage turned left and right, past a multitude of rooms behind which the various sounds of a stately home in full flow emanated, until eventually the corridor opened up into a wide space and she arrived at a grand staircase.

Halfway up the staircase, before it split and the two halves curved away from one another, a drab form ascended on light feet. Each step was perfectly placed, pushing slightly to test for noise before putting the full weight through and climbing to the next. They were not the actions of a man who believed he had permission to be there.

“Can I help you, My Lord?”

The Duchess’ call caused the man to halt in his tracks. Slowly he turned, his movements lithe and graceful.

“No, Your Grace,” he said, and now that he had said more than a single word the Duchess picked up gravelly undertones in his voice. “I was simply taking time away from the festivities.”

“You should have mentioned it,” the Duchess insisted, continuing her steady progress towards the staircase. “I would have given you a tour.”

The man smiled, descending the stairs in time with the Duchess’ advance, like some dance to an unheard tune. “I wouldn’t have dreamed to impose upon you.”

The man was at the bottom of the steps now and the Duchess was upon him. Each continued to step clockwise, appraising one another.

“But you did see fit to investigate my house without an escort?”

The Duchess’ tone was sharp and brought both of them to a halt. Eyes regarded one another through the holes of their respective masks. The silence was pregnant with anticipation.

“I know you are not Lord Felmet,” the Duchess revealed. “That man is old, frail, fragile, and speaks with a wheeze. You do not. Who are you?”

The man opened his mouth as if to respond and then lunged. One moment he was upright and poised, the next he was darting forward, blade drawn and slashing. And then he stopped and his eyes swivelled down to where the point of a knife tickled an area that wanted none of her attention.

“That’s right,” the Duchess cooed. “There’s no need for things to get nasty. You have been hired to do a job. That job is not worth your life, is it?”

The man gulped and shook his head.

“Put down the knife,” the Duchess commanded.

There was a clang of metal as the blade hit the hard floor.

Suddenly the Duchess’ knife vanished and she was all smiles again. A swift kick of her heeled foot sent the would-be assassin’s blade skittering across the floor and out of reach.

“There,” she said. “That’s much better. Now we can talk.”

“What about?” asked the man. There was suspicion in his voice.

“About what you’re going to do for me, of course,” the Duchess purred.

In as swift a movement as the one that had found a knife in her hand, the Duchess withdrew a small pouch. It clinked with the unmistakable sound of coin on coin.

“Consider this a down payment on future services given,” the Duchess suggested. “Lady Felmet believes you to be loyal. I could use a man like you in her inner circle.”

“I cannot be bought.”

“All loyalty has a price,” the Duchess insisted.

“Not mine.”

The Duchess smiled. “You misunderstand me. The price could be coin. It could be your life. Either way, a price will be paid for your loyalty.”

The man smirked. The Duchess was impressed with his bravado, foolhardy though it was.

“You won’t kill me,” the man declared.

He snatched the coin pouch from the Duchess’ hand and took a step back. The Duchess did not make to follow. Emboldened by the lack of a reaction, the man spread his arms wide.

“You see, you were never going to kill me. Wouldn’t want to get blood on that pretty dress of yours, now, would we?”

The Duchess’ features were as still as her body as she watched the man continue his bold retreat, skirting the base of the stairs and striding confidently into a passage to one side. She listened as the footsteps receded. Then there was a thud, a scream that was abruptly curtailed, and then a further thud.

The Duchess smiled. A good butler should always be able to anticipate their mistress’ wishes and Creep was so ever proficient at his job.

With a small sigh she turned on her heel and headed back to the party, keen to see how the pieces had moved in her absence.