Legend of the Storm Hawks

The Diplomat

The Diplomat~

Nigel Willoughby

Jorendon

Grenmoon, 4399

Lord Nigel Willoughby dispensed with the last of the day’s correspondence.

“See these go out in the morning post,” he told the young man hovering at his shoulder, trusty blotter in hand. “If I have no more appointments, have my carriage brought around.”

His secretary gathered the latest platitudes, directives, and misdirections Nigel had deemed ripe for delivery. Jules Brunet ducked under the doorframe and pulled the door closed behind him.

A man of few words in a dozen languages.

When Brunet took the post Nigel’s prior secretary had inconveniently vacated by dying, Nigel doubted the solemn young Gaurenne from Bresca would survive amongst the King’s Ministry traditionalists. But he spoke without the slightest accent and dressed impeccably, adopting the Jorendon style that suited his tall frame. Within the first month of his assignment, Brunet had memorized the names of the entire Diplomatic Corps, their length of service, and how they took their tea.

Dearly as he hoards words, he may yet prove adept at diplomacy.

Nigel pushed his chair back from the mahogany desk that had graced the King’s Minister of Diplomacy’s office for over a hundred years. He surveyed the bookshelves lining his office. His library spanned every inch of wall, from the heirloom rug to the towering ceiling embellished with murals of Joren’s legendary battles for Innis.

Today’s council session brought vexing news Nigel wanted to consider in the quiet of his townhouse this evening. He searched the shelves for an old text on ancient Aurel healing traditions. Earlier this morning, an odd phrase in an agent’s report had reminded him of the old book.

“Laying on of hands,” he muttered as he slid the ladder. “A blue binding. Thin with gilded letters.”

Nigel climbed the ladder and spotted the book just beyond arm’s length. He stretched his foot onto a shelf.

“Minister Willoughby, you could fall.” Brunet reappeared. “Allow me to get that for you.”

Boy seems to have found his voice.

“Your concern is commendable, Manser Brunet.” Nigel snagged the book, planted his hands on the brass handrail, and made a determined descent. “But I seem to have managed without serious injury. Is my carriage ready?”

“Yes, my lord.” Brunet offered a neat square of parchment. “I listed your morning appointments for your convenience.”

Nigel scanned the list. The first appointment was at an earlier hour than customary. Clever to call it to his attention, yet not imply he would have forgotten.

“Duly noted.”

He handed back the list. Let the young man note what he left unsaid. You did well and gained an ounce more respect from me.

Nigel gathered his cloak, slipped the book into its pocket, and left Brunet to close the office. He walked the Hall of Ministers, as he had at the close of so many days over the past forty years. His footsteps summoned comforting echoes from the marble. Every so often, he caught sidelong glimpses of the ghosts walking with him.

The conquering Surdisi built the Hall of Ministers in the early days of their rule. They must have been a vain lot. Along the hall’s entire length, polished silver panels broke expanses of dark wood. Nigel paused before one panel. The ghost of the venerable Lord Nigel Willoughby of Silveroak Hall peered back at him, long white hair draping his shoulders.

He was an institution in Jorendon, his authority on matters of state unquestioned. Such tenure in the unpredictable realm of diplomacy was rare. He retained his office because he understood patience.

Nigel was known not for his daring, but his persistence.

He glanced over his shoulder, to the panel on the opposite wall, and nodded to the third Lord Nigel in their company. A distinguished fellow of middling height and aristocratic features nodded back. He laughed aloud, chiding himself for the indulgence.

“Come along, old friends. See me to my carriage.”

The ghosts accompanied him as he resumed his walk, ducking behind walls and showing themselves again as he passed each panel. It comforted him to think they would haunt the Hall of Ministers long after he was gone.

“M’lord,” said the footman as Nigel approached.

Red as a plum, always glum, rhymes with…

“Good evening, Tum. How is the family?”

The footman’s scowl lifted. “Babe’s cuttin’ his teeth. Keepin’ us awake of a night. He’s got a strong pair of lungs, m’lord.”

“Off to a fine start.” Nigel patted the man’s back as he stepped into the carriage.

Tum would go home tonight and tell his wife Minister Willoughby called him by name and asked about their son. He would embellish the rest from a grain of truth. They would take from it what they needed, recognition of their humanity. That, in turn, would reaffirm their loyalty to the crown.

They only wanted to be seen. Not to be nameless and invisible.

Nigel sighed and pushed away such musings. Tomorrow a dozen other nobles would brush past an invisible Tum, and his scowl would return. Reality was not what he wished, but what those in power allowed. He leaned against the carriage window as the better parts of Jorendon slid past like so many years spent in this calloused city.

I swore an oath. No one claimed it came without sacrifice.

The carriage rolled to a stop before the townhouse he kept in Jorendon. Silveroak Hall was more to his liking, but the estate was half a day’s ride from the palace. The townhouse was a necessary compromise.

“My lord,” Henley greeted him in the foyer. “Will you be taking dinner at home tonight?”

“Something light. Oat bread and cheese. I expect no guests and wish to be left to my reading.”

Henley took his cloak and headed for the kitchen.

“Wait. I want the book in the pocket.”

“Yes, my lord. Will you take it now, or shall I bring it with your meal?”

“I’ll have it now. And slice an apple. I’ll share it with Tio.”

# # #

An ember burns crimson beneath the black coals. A fire left for dead, forgotten. I crouch and cup my hands. I remember its promise. In the rush of my breath, the ember glows brighter. It remembers, too.

Tio’s squawk pulled him from his sleep, cramped and disoriented. He’d drowsed in his chair, between reading and nibbling at his meal.

“He will see me,” boomed a voice outside his door. “Out of my way, little man.”

The book in his lap lay open to the passage he sought. It would wait. Blackheart’s bluster had him fully awake.

“Let him in, Henley.”

Captain Briac Kerjean, the Gaurenne privateer renowned as Blackheart, jostled Henley aside. Sleek black hair hung down his back. The precisely trimmed tuft on his chin repeated his hairline’s sharp peak. Dressed head to toe in black leather and silk, his only concession to color came from the iridescent peacock feathers trailing from his cavalier hat. Gold flashed from buckles and rings, his dagger’s hilt, and one of his teeth.

Blackheart was a man with an agenda. Once Nigel had come to understand that, the wily Gaurenne had become a useful tool in the struggle between Innis, Bresca, and Larad for control of the seas. With Nigel’s subtle nudging, King Walter sanctioned the marauders from the Gaurenne region of Bresca, dubbing them his sea wolves. They preyed on Laradish ships carrying Talluan gold across the Atlassia to enrich Larad’s royal coffers.

Captains in Walter’s Royal Navy looked the other way when they happened upon Laradish ships under attack by the privateers. Conversely, if the sea wolves hoisted the Innish flag, Walter’s captains came to their aid, even providing escort to the nearest Innish port. In return for such consideration, a tenth of their bounty enriched Innis’ royal coffers.

Officially, King Walter was appalled by Gaurenne brigands unscrupulously flying the Innish flag. Unofficially, he congratulated his sea wolves on their cunning and counted his share of the gold.

“You look well, old man,” said Blackheart.

“Well enough, Captain.” Nigel measured his reply. “Your report raised some concerns. How confident are you in your sources?”

“How confident can one be of the rumors of fishermen?” Blackheart shrugged. “I report what I hear. That was our agreement, yes?”

“Smuggling is a troubling rumor. I need to know who’s buying up cannons and gunpowder.”

“Your lack of trust wounds me. If I knew, I would tell you.” Blackheart held his arm out to the brightly plumed parrot from the Talluan Islands. “Did I not introduce you to your dearest friend?”

“Pirate,” squawked the bird. It flapped its wings, c****d its head, sidestepped onto the captain’s arm.

“Tio is better company than most people in this city.” Nigel offered Blackheart an apple slice. “Certainly more rational. What possessed you to steal the Rhi’Aleron’s sword?”

“It could have proved useful, this Talon. One barter in return for all of Aleron’s swords.” Blackheart skewered the apple on his dagger and raised it to Tio’s sharp beak.

“Aleron is not so easily bought.”

“A shame, but true. Not a wasted effort, though. The card game was entertaining.”

Blackheart curious to meet the Storm Hawks of Adan Tavish’s tavern tales? It made more sense than Briac Kerjean resorting to petty thievery for a ceremonial sword. Nigel could still occasionally be surprised by the motivations of men.

“Tell me more about the smugglers,” he said. “What flag do their ships fly?”

“Some hoist Brescan colors. Most none at all. A few years in Tallu…” Blackheart lifted a shoulder. “A man’s allegiance to his king wanes.”

“Bresca is building forts in northern Tallu,” said Nigel. “Are the micos responding?”

“The micos are cleverer than all your kings. They welcome Brescan forts to the north, and King Gerard forgives their raids on his outposts in the Gulf. Those same raids save King Philip having to dispatch Brescans from territory Larad claims. Up and down the coast, the micos grant land for Innish port towns we and Walter’s navy protect from Laradish and Brescan forays.”

“We protect their borders for them,” said Nigel. “And they keep any of us from gaining foothold enough to encroach on their land.”

“Prophets are fond of threes. The Este see Innis, Bresca, and Larad as a three-headed serpent that needs taming.”

“Three, three,” the parrot squawked, bobbing up Blackheart’s arm.

“The serpent I’m concerned about is stockpiling gunpowder in Innis,” said Nigel. “Captain, I need your cooperation.”

“You know what I want. As long as helping you gets me closer to my goal, you will have the cooperation of the Gaurennes.”

“And if you meet a serpent you think better serves your cause?”

“We speak frankly, yes?” Blackheart held his arm to the perch, and Tio stepped off his glove. “My people have been too long away from the green hills of Rhynn. The Gaurennes are ready to come home.”

Chapter 7