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Chapter 7: Praise

Nobody dared speak as Isaac paced like a man possessed. He was midway through a tale of naval cunning with the perfect backdrop; a painting by a famous, but recently deceased, artist who more famously created portraits for three generations of Bralranian royalty, and always with immaculate backdrops that wreathed the subject with an environment that told the subjects tale.

Primrose studied the masterwork landscape; the solid silver frame with gold filigree, bolted to a stand-alone wall of its own made of dark varnished mahogany. On the oil-painted canvas was a grey, overcast sky of furious clouds flecked with shots of lightning, a turbulent ocean with frothing waves that flowed into the form of a dragon on the Vliechoven side and a pack of hounds, the classic representation of Bralran, on the opposite. Atop these waves, three Bralranian ships on the left with the Vliechoven armada on the right in pursuit.

And in between? Red flame, bold and powerful. It felt wrong to truly look before Isaac told the moment it depicted, so Primrose mentally blocked the detail and considered its worth. As much as Primrose was enjoying the story and the artwork, the figure of ten to fifteen thousand lile sprung to mind, which was a fine distraction to ponder over.

The whole gallery was resplendent with treasures and curios from all over Ondressa; an iron and lacquered wood helmet once belonging to a warrior chieftain from the Isle of War, complete with an ugly, bulbous mask with horse hair used to replicate a beard, eyebrows and moustache.

Marble statues of twisted, winged humanoids from Ardentiphe, said to depict people of such ill favour to the Saints that they became devils and demons, agents of opposing virtues from worlds beyond understanding.

Even local relics, like the personal warhammer owned by King Brithahar III, the last Vliechoven monarch. He was overthrown by the current regime some six hundred years ago and fled to Bralran, married into its royal line, and is said to be the start of the seemingly endless hostilities between the two nations.

So many treasures, some priceless and others worth more than Primrose could ever hope to own, all held within a beautiful polished wood and marble hall that dominated an entire floor of the manor. Primrose had already noted the many locks and mechanisms Isaac disabled before they entered, on top of guards that patrolled the tile floors at all hours.

She planned accordingly but, with luck, she would succeed in this dinner party game and earn her prize legitimately. That said, no matter what, she would return home with the book remnants, no matter the legitimacy of the means.

Isaac suddenly continued, “with The Odious Pale's captain dead, I took charge and had no choice but to order the retreat as our sister ships, The Jubilant Disquieter and Peerless Spectre, pulled ahead of us. The storm was growing, the vicious winds pealing from the north, off the Vhakram Republic's south-western shores, were more violent and savage than a dragon in heat!

“We should have been safe, as the storm should have dissuaded the pursuit, but we didn't reckon that they would have an aeromancer, a mage capable of controlling the wind to give their fleet peerless speed! It was just a matter of time before they would catch us! Thirty vessels, all closing in, including the Vliechov's notorious flagship, The Drakshavek; The Dragon-Chaser.

“Once their lead ships were within range, they started unleashing their drakeblood oil! A liquid that burns on contact on water, sprayed no less than half a nautical mile from their damned mechanical pumps. A single dash on a wet deck or the hull and you have a nigh unquenchable flame consuming your ship without piling it with sand. It's how I got this scar," he said and stroked the large burn scar on his temple.

“Our helmsman was still infirmed from during the initial ambush, so Roslan took the wheel!" Isaac put his arm firmly around his former bosun, a portly, kind eyed man with wispy grey hair.

“Just doing right by the crew. You know that, sir," the former bosun said.

There was a wetness to Isaac's eyes as he smiled and jovially thumped the man on the back with more pride than Primrose imagined the old salt could muster, then returned to the full fire and fury of his memories. “By Vanterre's hairy bollocks, I'd never seen such steady hands at the wheel! They should have made you a saint, old friend.

“Anyway, we could only dodge their flames for so long as we approached the Heighe strait, a notoriously narrow channel beset on both sides by shallows and sandbars, so we had to act fast. We still had the barrels of explosives prepared for breaching Prohveshkall's fortress' walls; heavy things, but the stuff inside was lighter than water. Our course was clear: we tried our utmost to jettison the barrels near the burning patches, yet we couldn't risk getting clipped. A fool's hope. We were doomed even beyond a fool's hope. The only good we achieved was dropping ballast."

Isaac's swagger stick thrust at the central, most eye-catching part of the painting.

A vast ship, wreathed in red flame with a gaping hole in the prow.

“Of course, their spewers weren't exactly 'clean'. The spray would lose pressure and trickle onto the prow, hence their ships had these plated metal armoured rams on the front to ward off any excess flame and breach enemy ships. Gave rise to the nickname of Vliechov's navy, the firebeards. Anyway, with the flames, waves and foam abound, they couldn't see what awaited them as they kept spraying their cowardly weapons. So when our barrels crashed against the Drakshevak's ram?"

He chuckled, brought his hands together, then splayed them apart.

“Boom! So down went the flagship, then two more of their front-runners. No sooner than the Vliechoven scum saw their compatriots go up in flames and splinters, the other vessels panicked! They turned about, their numbers caused them to clash and sink some of their own as the mage-born violent squall pushed them nearer and nearer to the explosives, even cutting through their own drakeblood pools and leaving streaks of fire in spiral patterns!

“I signalled the other ships to turn about and loose volleys of drake-bolts as fast as our men could reload our arbalests. It wasn't to sink their fleet, of course, just to dissuade any attempt to save the captain, the aeromancer and their crew. As soon as we realised they had that mage, we knew the Drakshevak bore two members of the Vliechoven oligarchy, possibly even more, since a couple of their other leaders stopped appearing soon after."

Isaac chortled to himself and shook his head. “And at one point we were named 'the wrong crew', since so many of our officers had been slain or injured! Bah! Us auxiliaries took up the slack and we didn't just win, we obliterated them!"

True to form, the piece was called 'The Bite of the Wrong.' Primrose read about this part of the war late in her years at the orphanage some seventeen years ago, since being groomed for marriage meant having a keen knowledge of politics and war. After all, many prospective bachelors were former soldiers and sailors.

Isaac sighed and calmed. “Of course once they learned they couldn't best us on the sea, they gathered their best and tried a mass land invasion five years ago under the cover of merchant vessels like a pack of cowards. Of course, fine men like my Jacob hunted those pillocks down at the War of Burning Flags."

Jacob shook his head. “I wish I could claim credit, but the real heroes there were the raothaar auxiliary. It's just a shame we didn't catch on to their scheme sooner; so many innocents slain as they covered their movements by burning every settlement near their beachhead at Whalers Cliff."

“It doesn't matter," Isaac said with a shrug. “You stopped them before they dug themselves in and my navy crushed their reinforcements. Vliechov will always find monstrous ways to spill blood for the sake of a tactical advantage. The Six know they aren't capable of any real military skill."

“This is all well and good," said one of the other guests, “but what about this Vliechoven dragon that's been all the ballyhoo recently? The one that has Vliechov losing land hand-over-fist? Emperor... Fire-something?"

“Firaegin," Jacob answered. “It's hard to say. He's a dragon far larger than any ever seen outside of legend, or so they say. I'm more interested in his conquest. He seems to have appeared in Goshev as if from nothing, but nobody seems to know how he's truly making his advance; some claim he's cowing the population by might and fear, yet I've heard first hand accounts of those that claim he's a peacekeeper, replete with kobold ambassadors."

“Pah!" Isaac coughed, then sneered. “A lot of worry about a beast the likes of which Bralran has vanquished before. Let them send their tiny slaves to trade words. They'll earn nothing but contempt and the tips of our dragonbolts. Speaking of..."

Isaac moved on to the next collection of exhibits, each a piece of Vliechoven military gear. Bralran had their knights, masters of the sword and politics, but since time immemorial, Vliechov's strategy was subterfuge first, raw numbers second and, in recent decades, technological acumen.

“This here is all that remains from a new-fangled Sprunkesser crossbow," Isaac said as he pointed his stick at what resembled a crossbow, but...

Can you truly call it a crossbow without the arms? It was a fancy, thick and curved stave with a trigger. Hinged metal plates covered most of some complicated clockwork mechanism and a long metal tube at the front. It had several levers, bolts and panels along its length, which flared Primrose's curiosity for mechanical tools, but it didn't make any sense as a more powerful ranged weapon.

“The sly shits were on the cusp of developing a refinement on the crossbow. Anyone who fought on the front lines will remember the drone of these unsaintly weapons caused when loosed; like an unholy moan of the damned." Isaac took a crossbow bolt from its mounting, or at least it resembled one at a glance.

As Primrose looked closer, and besides the age, tarnish and rust, it was made of pure iron instead of simply metal tipped, with a broad head and stiff, but minimal fletching, instead it seemed to rely on metal fins.

Isaac snorted and said, “these damn things could cut clean through a man in plate, chain and gambeson and likely kill the man behind him!"

Jacob nodded, “aye, they certainly put us on the back foot of our initial skirmish at Burning Flags. If they had those contraptions a few months sooner, I suspect the war would have turned out differently."

Isaac snorted, replaced the bolt and took up the actual weapon, eyeing it with contempt. “Grow a spine, boy! These damned things broke after just a few scant shots when we procured their own ordinance; unreliable tat not worthy of touching our soil, like those bastard Vliechoven weasels themselves!"

He went to slam the Sprunkesser back on its rack, but stopped himself a the last second and replaced it with care. He then stomped up to Jacob and wagged his finger at the knight. “'Few months sooner', my left nut! The losses may have been more grave if they had more of these over-designed pieces of chamber pot damnable scrap shit, nephew, but if you show that sort of yellow streak with me again, I'll give you a taste of the lash!"

Jacob raised his hands to placate his uncle, and Isaac grumbled under his breath then started pacing again, having spat the fire out of his lungs. He continued, “no, whatever they were trying to pull, they were clearly deployed in desperation. I had it on good authority that one of their chief weapon researchers, some scalecaster freak nestled near Havsglas mountain, was assassinated not long after they defiled our land with their boots. I owe whoever took him down a glass of Bralranian rye."

Jacob smirked. “Even if they were Vliechoven themselves?"

“ Especially if they're Vliechoven!" Isaac's face grew red as he continued to rant. “They might finally prove to me that Vliechov isn't just a country of kobold sucking, inbred, gap-toothed, cumberworld scum! Only good thing that ever came from that vast stretch of faecal matter is my Jelka; she took one look at me and realised what a flock of bow-legged, simpering, teat-sucking maids we all know their men are! Nothing good comes from Vliechov!"

“What about your dogs?" Primrose chimed.

“You... ! I... !" Isaac's face somehow reddened deeper and he stumbled over his own words. “Them bloody too! And maybe their vodka isn't awful. And they aren't terrible at salacious literary works since St. Phoebe knows they can't perform in bed, but that's all their so-called 'great nation' has ever developed!"

Isaac walked on from the painting over to an area that made Primrose's ears and whiskers perk up; raothaari weapons, armour and a few assorted trinkets like Sibling Lord symbols. He cleared his throat and began discussing 'ratfolk opportunists' in war.

Primrose blanked the ranting out; she knew the human opinion on raothaar warfare already. A short but strong people with thicker, heavier equipment to take advantage of that fact. While they didn't enjoy open conflict, only defending their land when reasonable to do so and fleeing 'like cowards when things turned even slightly difficult' was typical, it was common to see the few moments they did throw their weight into a conflict, they performed better than most.

Primrose didn't care. She let her eyes wander until one display, tucked in the corner and inside a glass case was the remnant.

Large wooden panels strung together with old, thin rope. The old cord wrapped and coiled along the spine and, much to Primrose's chagrin, the ashen remains of the pages within. As she got closer, she saw the blackened trace of words on the cover.

Wirvrao Joristi. Children's tales. Any subtitles were illegible, but it likely had the names of a few of the stories once found inside. The covers were closed, so Primrose couldn't even peer at the engraving within to confirm these were parts of the map to the vault, to the supposed raothaari sanctuary. If the cover survived being burned, it should be what Primrose was after.

“Quite the unassuming piece, no?"

Primrose flinched, hopped and spun. She almost reached for Noran's Tooth, but she left it back in her room.

The well groomed and dressed man beside her made her fur stand on end and her tail twitched as the recognition sunk in; Lord Gathard.

He peered at the display case and stroked his chin before returning his arm beneath the half-cloak over his left shoulder with a small flourish. “I hold no grudge, if you're curious, about the indignity of being frisked by both Falkshire's men and then the constabulary. And consider the pocket watch you stole as a down payment for if you decide to be civil and answer one simple question. What do you know about raothaaristrod?"

Primrose's tail wriggled, but she held back any expression. That wasn't its true name, but he called it many-folk-wood. The material used in the remnant and the map to the vault both. It was something she knew more than most but very little overall.

“A lost cultivation art of my people, so not much actually." Primrose glanced up at him and added, “along with much of our culture, as humanity seeks to press down upon us for not throwing ourselves on the blades of Bralran's enemies over fruitless warfare."

Gathard stared at her for a moment, then back at the remnant. “And yet you see fit to benefit from The Queen's protection, especially when you're free to leave and return to your mud-huts in the forest?" He smirked and looked down his nose at her. “You truly are a people who want everything and expect to give little, if anything, in return. I suppose that you're in gainful employment with Falkshire at all makes you the equivalent of a saint to your people, since you're earning your way like a normal person? Or does that make you a scoundrel? I forget exactly what your Sibling lords considered virtuous."

Primrose bruxed her teeth but held her temper. “We do as we must to survive. Perhaps you could offer some of my people a place at your shipyards? I know several of my kin who are handy with tools. Some have crafted canoes and one was in charge of constructing a sloop."

“I fear, Ms. Primrose, that I must decline." Gathard smoothed one of his eyebrows. “I've not the need to replace my men's tools as they somehow end up in the scaled hands of that feathery yatagha friend of yours for a handful of soon-to-be squandered lile."

Yatagha? That sounded like an Isle of War word. Primrose wasn't sure of its meaning, but the implication was clear; Bantam.

“Don't bother telling me his current name, I'm sure he will change it once he finishes whatever unholy task he's in our fair city to accomplish before he returns to the Isle of War. They're an interesting subsect of the Sensumaran people; born and raised into forced servitude for some irrelevant crime against the people. They're trained every living moment of their lives in a multitude of trade skills thanks to their impeccable skill at mimicry and turned loose to achieve something their mentor desires to earn their freedom. I am curious what's taking him so long, unless he has actually earned it already.

“Still, at least they're driven and talented, unlike the raothaar, who just want to stagnate. They can't seem to hold on to what they own or think they've earned. Just a relentless tide of asking for more or pilfering it, like so many sticky-fingered, selfish children."

“Vaklith!" Primrose snarled, then realised her voice echoed through the large gallery.

The silence in the gallery was louder than anything else as the rest of the group stared at them.

Gathard put an arm against his chest as he bowed, specifically towards the rest of the guests rather than Primrose. “My apologies. We were merely engaged in a philosophical debate and I went too far."

A trio of light chimes from a bell mechanism by the gallery door rung and the brigadier took a deep breath, then sighed. “We can continue the tour after the second course. It would take no less than the end of my sixth life to pull me away from Jelka's fried fish and buttered greens. Come, everyone out! Step to!"

* * *

The dining hall had a dramatic appeal; it was centrally lit, so as to draw the eyes inward and to ignore the outer edges of the room, where servants could slink in and out, delivering their food and vanishing. It was similar to many noble houses back in the city, where the aim was to keep the upper class folk from having to look at the serfs for too long.

Not that it worked on Primrose and her keen eyes; the walls were undecorated besides the exits and a smattering of windowed cabinets, displaying fine craft cutlery and crockery. At one end of the room, atop a small stage, was a four member group playing a fiddle, a lute, a hurdy-gurdy and a gittern. They played a slow but upbeat song of which Primrose recognised but didn't know its name.

After the first course, a flavoursome but light vegetable soup with freshly baked bread, the idea of something more substantial like fish almost made Primrose forget the altercation in the gallery. She almost forgot her character as St. Valarie until she found herself fiddling with the pendant around her neck.

The 'game of saints' wasn't complicated. Like any polite party game, discussion and topics flowed and the participants had to give their answers a spin that fit their respective saint, as well as the significant other associated with each. St. Valarie was all about business, luck, sailing and deals, and Felnis was her bodyguard and lover.

Lord Gathard had an older, serious looking human woman as his saint partner. They clearly had a relationship of sorts, though Primrose doubted it was a romantic one, as they frequently whispered and discussed things behind their hands but there was no warmth between them.

They were playing St. Dastor and his ill fated lover, Cherise. Even the least pious human would be able to tell the tale of St. Dastor and how he defended a forested mountain pass with nothing but a shovel, a length of chain and a single, old fashioned padlock. He then lured the local wildlife to attack the approaching army, harassing them until they arrived at the fortress starved, sick from fever, bloodied and spent, barely able to man the ram with enough strength to break the padlock before Dastor unleashed starving wolves on the force.

The others were half-hearted about their characters and just enjoying the occasion, barring the drunk one as Vanterre occasionally claiming he could behead everyone here with his fish knife. That thankfully meant Primrose could focus on Gathard.

While Primrose had researched the man since Bantam mentioned Gathard's pursuit of Sibling artefacts, he was otherwise a private sort. His name was bandied about in the usual upper class circles and he owned a few shipyards. He also traded in all sorts of finery, which is where he no doubt gained a taste for antiques. This put him in a dangerous place as having an equivalent body of knowledge to her own, not to mention most nobility were keen on fencing, so odds were he could fight to some extent as well.

Philman Gathard fiddled with the St. Dastor emblem around his neck, a padlock clenched between what looked like sharp teeth (but were in fact tiny mountains and trees) and seemed lost in thought.

Primrose turned to Isaac, cleared her throat and said, “so, would you say that The Odious Pale was the finest ship you ever sailed upon? It's my belief that as finely crafted as a vessel can be, it is the sailors on board who make it truly exemplary!"

Isaac rolled his eyes, then Jelka nudged him and he sighed. “These games, I swear. St. Gareg take me or give me strength," he said under his breath, then answered, “The Pale was a fine ship, swift and agile, but the best vessel I had ever served upon was the late king's own, The Pious Executor.

“Seven decks, with four of them dedicated to arbalests, as well as six front and eight back mounted launchers on deck. A five hundred strong crew, of which I spent my time as sergeant and, later, lieutenant of marines after my second tour. Of course I was made acting captain when serving as lieutenant on The Pale during the end of that campaign and then brigadier upon our victorious return.

“But as for what you said, you're not wrong. Poor ships can win wars, it just takes cunning. Damaged ships can still function if it isn't actively sinking, and the Bralranian navy have prided themselves on pressing an attack even while repairing a vessel. Takes a steely set of nerves to take such a risk when one bad storm or ambush would send us down into the drink, and I say it's a risk worth taking if you're called to serve and Bralranian lives are in the balance."

Jelka smiled and nodded to Primrose, who kept her smirk hidden as she sipped her wine.

Gathard cleared his throat loudly, and with such snide intent that Primrose swore the band was thrown off for a beat. “As much as I'm sure you're trying to curry favour with your limited knowledge of the sea, Ms. Primrose, I'm still a bit more interested in that mysterious wood your kin once cultivated, as an authority in fortress construction." He smirked as he tapped the emblem around his neck.

“I daresay that if the raothaar would be willing to impart either their knowledge of growing the material or the location of any given stockpile to Bralran the raothaar would no doubt seem favourable in the eyes of the Crown. Imagine a fleet of fireproof ships, clad in wood as buoyant as oak yet strong as steel."

Primrose huffed. “For security or profit? Either way, 'Dastor', I have nothing to offer you." Primrose likewise tapped her emblem. “Perhaps we could trade trinkets? I have a handsome set of rusted iron buttons I'm willing to part with; they're about as worthy as your wits."

Jacob added, “I bet neither would fetch a single lile."

Primrose gave him a glance, and he shrugged; this sort of wordplay and double speak was clearly not part of his forte.

Isaac swigged a glass of wine as the kitchen doors opened and several servants emerged bearing trays covered in places. The brigadier said, “raothaar wood, eh? That's the same stuff as the story book, if I'm not mistaken. I only bought it because I lacked rat literature to round out the collection, had it put out for a friend to translate, which is when I found out the damn thing was just a bunch of stupid, childish yarns. Then my former servant, Sandwelk (that snivelling pillock) assumed it was off cut wood and threw it in the fireplace. I'd never seen the like; almost completely unharmed, although the pages went up in smoke."

Primrose took a moment to compose herself as the constant small digs at her people were mounting. She tried to reply but was caught unawares as a servant placed a cloched plate in front of her. Despite the commotion, Prim's keen hearing could hear the other serfs even over the music, just not this one as he moved behind Jacob and placed another plate in front of the knight.

Her ears flattened in frustration as she refocused. “Sir Randell, even stories suited to children have merit; they teach us our history and ethical lessons too. In fact if you wish, and for a pittance, I can provide a number of copied-"

The cloches were raised, revealing a fine set of fried fish, dressed leafy salad and a ramekin of a white, herby sauce.

Except Primrose's plate, which had a wedge of cheese.

She bit her tongue. She had been insulted more days of her life than not, but the sudden slap in the face threw her off and she froze.

Isaac's eyes bulged as he snorted, gagged, spat out half a mouthful of wine and cackled loud enough that the music stopped.

Gathard, glancing between him and Primrose, soon began to snicker to himself, even whispering to his female companion, who joined in with the joke with a low smirk and an incredulous shake of her head.

The servant. Where was he? Primrose turned about, but they were all retreating to the kitchen. All were dressed in a simple uniform and a few turned back to see what the commotion. Primrose had to assume these ones weren't expecting this reaction. The others were either too disciplined, busy, or...

There. That one. He walked with a limp, but it was a purposeful walk, determined to leave the banquet hall. Too determined.

Primrose stood and moved towards the kitchen, but Jacob's hand grabbed hers, low enough to be concealed by the table to most of the guests, and as their eyes met, his gaze then went to her chair.

She swallowed her pride, climbed back in her chair, and sat in silence as the guffawing continued.

Everyone else at the table was either keeping their own laughs in check or, Primrose noted to some relief, a few of the others were clearly appalled, including the bosun, his wife, and Jelka. She looked so horrified that she grabbed Isaac's ear, twisted it and demanded, “Izzy! What is the meaning of this!?"

“Ach, it wasn't me!" Isaac protested, then as he was released, he turned to Gathard and gave him a glance.

Gathard smirked, but shrugged. “It wasn't me, either! I haven't coerced any of your staff, and you know it; I've been with you or in my allocated estate all day, and both of our retinue of guards can attest that none of your people have entered my premises or vice-versa."

Isaac scratched his pointed chin. “He's right. Hmph. I have no idea who's behind this, but as host, my apologies, Ms. Primrose; rest assured whoever insulted you will get theirs. Still, damn good jape." He chuckled again, then calmed and snapped his fingers.

His steward approached, an old, squinty eyed human lady that carried herself with an iron stiffness that reminded Primrose of Madam Henswick. Isaac whispered something to her, then she stormed off into the kitchen and raised voices rang through the dinner hall, which were then drowned out as the band once more started playing.

Isaac glanced at the block of cheese, fought off another grin, and said, “I take it by your reaction you aren't fond of an old fashioned ribbing, eh? Well, I suppose at least you didn't bottle out; I always worry that Jacob surrounds himself by the bleeding heart types his parents used to bring in to their household. Fat lot of good it did them," he kissed his index finger at the middle knuckle then pressed his hand against his chest and offered in prayer, “St. Gareg watch over them."

Jacob's jaw clenched. He was already distant from the party game, but now he seemed to shut down for a moment.

In all the topics that had come up, Primrose realised she'd never asked about his parents. She knew they were deceased even before they had first met, as part of her research into Jacoby Falkshire sent her to cover such topics, but there was a story there that was hidden. It would have piqued her interest if she wasn't still silently outraged.

Primrose looked at the cheese and pushed it away.

“Oh, grow a thicker skin and eat, for goodness sake. It's good cheese," Isaac chided, then with another daggerish stare from Jelka, he sighed and his posture eased. “If you want crackers or biscuits, I'll send for some. Perhaps a good plum and onion relish? Failing that, I'll bloody well eat it and you can have my fried fish."

Primrose remained silent. She wasn't in the mood for either his grandiose ego nor his particular brand of hospitality.

Isaac slammed a fist on the table. “I said eat, rodent."

“Uncle!" Jacob growled and gripped the table as his knuckles turned white.

“Bah! You of all people should know the value of toughing things out, Jacob, and you especially understand that if you aren't going to take their snide, petty insults in stride, then you might as well just lock yourself away." He suddenly shoved a finger at Gathard. “If I'm to call Gathard a pompous cock sucker, then that's my right and he's got two choices!"

Gathard's eyebrows were threatening to reach his scalp from the sudden broadside insult, but forced himself to respond, “I- I'd call you an ill-mannered wastrel, sir! Nearer a stable-hand fondler than a gentleman!"

“Piss-weak as Vliechoven ale," Isaac cackled, then pointed at Primrose, “but better than sitting there looking sorry for yourself, so there! Eat! It looks like a skill you have in spades, stuffed in that dress like an air-bladder jammed most of the way up someone's arsehole."

Primrose flinched, like her body was a machine and someone had shifted the linkages within. This wasn't a party any more, it was like any other time she entered a guild or hideout of any number of cut-throats, thieves and bandits. Some, you had to kowtow to their threats, take the jabs and threats and simply remain cordial.

Others?

She stood on her chair, grabbed the cheese, hopped onto the table and stormed over to Isaac.

He looked taken aback as he reached for his swagger stick on reflex as if she was going to lunge at him.

She then sat on the table edge next to him as they locked gazes. Primrose took a large bite of the cheese, dropped the rest of it on his plate, bared her teeth, and said, “I'm not beholden to you, your jingoistic, hot aired bravado or your sag-sacked attempt at reclaiming your manhood by swinging around a stick. No doubt that's to make up for the stub you've got packed into your trousers, you insufferable waste of loose skin. I dare say if you could even get aroused you'll die from a lack of blood going to your shrivelled, black heart and even attempting to stick your todger into someone would leave them bored enough to contemplate suicide than suffer the indignity!"

Isaac glowered at her so hard she thought his eyes were going to pop out. He slammed both hands on the table, stood over her and began to seethe like a kettle primed to boil, if not explode.

Finally, he screamed in raucous laughter and ruffled her thicker, coarser head-fur like a child. He didn't stop cackling until he went purple in the face and Jelka was forced to pat him on the back as he coughed as tears streamed down his cheeks.

The whole dinner party was frozen in place, out of fear their host was about to drop dead or suddenly fly back into a violent rage.

He finally croaked, coughed and rasped at Jacob, “please tell me you're fucking this one! She's a keeper! Saints help me..." he continued to gasp for air, and after slurping down a glass of wine, he sat back in his chair. “Alright, piss off, rodent. Back in your chair. Damn well played."

“Gladly. I couldn't handle the stench of how many desperate sailors you've tongued for much longer anyway."

Isaac snickered as Primrose hopped off the table and back to her seat beside Jacob, who looked like he'd just lost a few years of his life from his pale face and wet brow.

Gathard looked frustrated; it was obvious the prank was his idea but it backfired as he grimaced, cleared his throat and added, “indeed, limpen and weak in his advanced years. After all only a Vliechoven whore would deign to-"

Isaac snatched up his swagger stick and hurled it at Gathard. It struck short in a wayward ricochet, shattering Gathard's plate and spraying the noble with battered fish.

“Insult me at your leisure!" Isaac snarled. “Insult my wife!? I'll chop off your fingers and jam them down your throat, you mollycoddle sack of shit!"

Jelka put her hand on Isaac's arm and said, “please, it's alright. I'm sure he was just going with the 'banter' or whatever it's called."

Gathard looked at the shattered plate and pleaded, “I do apologise, my lady! Sir Randell! It is as she said; I sometimes struggle to keep pace with your rapier wit and forgot my place. Uh..." he turned to the silent musicians, “minstrels, please, play something to calm the good sir! Let us enjoy the evening, yes?"

The band looked at Isaac as he continued to glower at the man even as Primrose struggled to hide her smug grin, but any amusement faded as Isaac's mood pervaded the gathering.

The minstrels glanced at each other and slowly resumed their tune, but it felt distant and cold, bereft of any soul and passion as everyone started picking at their cooling food, except Gathard and Primrose who shared their respective partners plates.

Everything seemed so muted, Prim swore she could hear the clatter of crockery in the kitchen. Then something else. A different tune.

The former bosun, Roslan, was humming under his breath and tapping the table. Nobody else seemed to hear it besides the maybe the bosun's wife, but Prim's keen ears twisted and flicked as she caught the tune. His downcast expression and the way he was picking at his nails; a way to handle stress, especially Isaac's fiery temper, it seemed, but Primrose had heard that tune before.

A sea shanty. Primrose remembered hearing them quite often whenever ships had pulled into dock and the sailors spent their hard earned lile on drink and women. They were an entertaining distraction from the cold as Primrose wrapped up and tried to draw any warmth through the walls back when she was a vagrant.

This particular tune was 'Bully at the docks', a classic about a sailor who was popular with women but had awful luck, loose morals, poor state of dress and sobriety (hence bully, used in the drunkard sense of the word of being pickled, like bully beef) when reaching his ship.

Primrose grinned as she recalled the words, and couldn't help but hum as well. The bosun didn't drop his tune as he looked across at the short raothaar and smiled.

After a few bars, Isaac started nodding along as well. He was singing under his breath, and Primrose could read the words of the song, before he stopped and sighed. Suddenly it wasn't a fierce brigadier sitting at the head of the table, but an old soul reliving his glory days in his own mind.

This was it. This was how Primrose would win.

“There goes ol' Cobb and he's in another state,

Not a single worry if he's tidy or late,

He was in another bed with a lass he won't wed,

One o' these days he's gonna wind up dead!"

The band stopped. Raslan and Isaac stared at her.

“Go on, rodent," Isaac chuckled.

Primrose smirked.

“Ohh!

He turned up bully!

Bully at the docks!

In a woman's blouse and mismatched socks!

He's always bully!

Bully at the docks!

Lock'em in the brig, pillory and stocks!"

Suddenly, both the sailors belted into a warbling pitch of song! They were so loud, Prim was taken aback for the first verse, but she caught pace and everyone just watched, including the band.

“So on cap'n's orders we've gone to seek him out,

And crack him with a lash, that'll sober the lout,

But e'ery time we do, makes him harder to catch,

Soon we're gonna find'em up your mama's snatch!"

“Ohh!

Because he's bully!

Bully on the deck!

No shoes or shorts and a sunburnt neck!

He's always bully!

Bully on the deck!

Put'em up to task at the swabbie's beck!"

“Caught him goin' at a upper class girl,

Mighty queer lass, givin' ol' Cobb a whirl.

T'was only the next week when he had to dash,

He's only gone and given her a nasty rash!"

“Ohh!

He's once more bully!

Bully out to sea!

'appy pickled in drink, plus another three!

He's always bully!

Bully out to sea!

Gonna end up hanging at the King's decree!"

“Found 'im out cold in the chapel o' Saints,

Walls covered in piss and a dozen paints,

He's sullied every vow and all dozen sins,

and knocked up a dozen nuns with a score o' twins!"

“Ohh!

On board, he's bully!

Bully on the job!

It's a wonder how he remembers his name is Cobb!

He's always bully!

Bully on the job!

Knocked o'erboard by a bucket in the gob!"

“No longer Bully!

Bully in the drink!

Never ever seen a man who's a faster sink!

He's always bully!

Bully in the drink!

Ne'er forgotten, if only 'cause the lurkin' stink!"

“Weyhey!" Isaac bellowed and slapped the table. “Model bloody sailor, the scallawag! Bralran's raised on the backs like poor bastards like old Cobb!"

The bosun added, “aye, that she is! I knew half a dozen like'em. Idiots who'd spend every rust-lipped lile on drink and wenches and come back for another dance on the waves! Liquored up, proud and willing to face the whole Vliechoven fleet! A toast!!"

Isaac and Raslan stood with glasses raised, though the host quickly dipped his so a servant could quickly refill it. Primrose and Jacob were quick to stand, and slowly everyone joined in.

Isaac cried out, “to Bralran! To the navy! Saints hold them all to their bosom and may she live a thousand more years! All-Six!"

“All-Six!"

With everyone another drink deeper and reseated, Isaac breathed a low sigh, nodded and looked at Primrose.

“I don't think much of your people, rodent. I love this country more than anything, and I know your people hate conflict, but that's just how Bralran always has been. That said, there are a handful of your people I've met that were tougher and braver than any human I've met, and must say I like the cut of your jib. Now, if you're serving my nephew, you'll give your life if needed, and he'll lay his down for you, as it should be. He's a damn good man, so be damn good back to him! The reward's yours."

Gathard stood in outrage, with the chair squeaking on the floor, before he snapped, “Lord Randell! The night's still young, you can't-"

The brigadier shot him a fiery glance that caught his business partner's words in his throat. “I respect you as a businessman, a supplier of Bralran's fleet and whatever else the Queen expects me to say to kiss your flimsy, cushiony boots, Gathard, but know this; takes a lot to make me respect a city-born rodent like Ms..." Isaac blinked and looked back across to Primrose, and asked, “wait, what's your last name?"

Primrose glanced away, but then she felt Jacob's hand on her shoulder as he said, “go on. There's no shame in holding on to it, no matter what you do. He'll be proud."

Primrose took a deep breath and finally answered, “Cathrop, sir."

“Cathrop?" Isaac's eyes grew wide as he slowly stood. “Cathrop!? As in Renard Cathrop, the Cataclysm?"

Primrose's ears twitched about as she tried to make sense of what she just heard. “I beg your pardon, sir?"

“Renard! He served both on the crows nest and was the long-looser back on The Pious Executor! Best eyes in Bralran back in the day; he could wipe a babe's nose from the other end of the dock with a crossbow without so much as a single tear or drop of blood shed! Ah, at least before his eyes started going dim and he sadly retired after a couple of tours.

“He'd call targets and have us ready to loose a barrage of drakespikes before the average crewman could take a piss. One time, we sunk a vessel in the thickest fog you'd ever seen just going by his ability to occasionally spot the tip of the mast. After we dragged a Vliechoven sailor from the drink and he told us how his crew thought it was the end of the world. He called it a sign of Valarie's cataclysm, so we damn well gave Renard the name.

“That reminds me," Isaac said and turned to Jacob. “You served with his boy in Burning Flags, didn't you? Big bastard of a rat. Big as a horse and twice as strong from the tellings, and a damn fine soldier."

Jacob glanced at Primrose before he replied, “yes, uncle, Primrose was married to him, but... he passed away. Lost at sea on a mission of peace to recover some prisoners of war from Vliechov."

Isaac grimaced. “Ach, damn. My condolences." He raised his glass towards Primrose. “Any woman worthy of a Cathrop is one of a saint's worth! Serving my nephew is proof you're made of the right stuff as well."

Primrose nodded, but didn't care for the praise as she sat quietly in thought. Antoine had never mentioned his father ever serving in the Bralranian navy. He had worked with the raothaari militia, like most men did in their late teens, but that was all. Yet another thing she would have to check into when they returned home.

Not long after everyone had finished eating, the grim faced steward returned and whispered in Isaac's ear.

He nodded to her, whispered back, then stood. “Attention, everyone, they're still investigating who was stupid enough to insult Ms... my apologies, Mrs. Cathrop_._ Let's return to the gallery, Mrs. Cathrop can pick her prize and I can continue the tour while they finish the main course."

* * *

After selecting her prize, Primrose wasn't surprised that it would be held until the next day, both for Isaac's book-keeping and, as Isaac said, because, “handling valuables and drink are a poor mix."

The tour continued through a few other areas of arms and armament from various cultures, mostly common weapons with small tales tied to them, before they once more returned to the dining hall at the chime of the dinner bell.

The main course was delicious, rich, sumptuous pheasant, herb and lemon stuffing, honey roasted vegetables and a gravy so rich Prim could have drank it as a soup. The whole thing was so decadent that Primrose, to Isaac's amusement, asked for seconds. After missing out a full portion of her fish course, she didn't feel too guilty.

Despite the same number of servants delivering the meals, there was no sign of the man with the limp. While it nagged the back of her mind, and without the game of saints hanging over the event, things settled into a more casual affair.

Gathard, however, was all but silent. He only replied to any direct questions in a terse (if still polite) tone, and before long they all once more went for a final journey of the gallery before dessert.

The final exhibit of the room comprised of Isaac's military awards, medals, uniform and a portrait of him in his youth, but the most touching surprise was that his painting was far smaller than the painting of Jelka on their wedding day. Isaac spun a tale of being injured on a raid on the Vliechoven continent and Jelka, a local village healer, kept him hidden from the oligarch's spies as they investigated the sightings of a Bralran sergeant in the area.

What followed was a touching tale of Jelka being kidnapped and interrogated by said spies while on an errand and Isaac's gallant, one man assault on a coastal fortress as he infiltrated, set ablaze and slew a dozen of the fort's men on his search for his own rescuer.

Isaac rescued Jelka, held a couple of soldiers at sword point to launch a small schooner. He even apparently charmed them into serving him as they escaped back to Bralran.

Primrose wasn't sure how much embellishment the story held, but after seeing Jacob fight, it probably wasn't much.

She spotted Gathard staring out of one of the barred windows. She resisted the urge to stare and just peered as he ran his hands over the metal poles, then returned to the group. He didn't make eye contact with anyone, just rejoining as if he was never gone.

With a slow wriggle of her tail, Primrose stepped back and busied herself by looking at a war sabre that was between the group and the window. A few servants were cleaning the floors in the parts of the gallery the group had already been guided through, and their slow mopping and sweeping made it hard to detect any particular quirks with them.

She almost lost interest until one started cleaning the bars of the window with a damp cloth. A human man who went to great pains to work the rag into each bar, then a pause on one... then plucked a slip of paper. He finished his task and limped away.

Primrose knew she could raise a ruckus using her newfound respect to get Isaac to look into this, but that wasn't the right play; there was a budding conspiracy around Gathard and she needed to start digging deeper. He had more information on Primrose and her associates than she liked.

She didn't even want to take down this enemy agent, but just find something she could follow later to prevent suspicion. She recalled what had been said this evening about the servants; a member of staff, burning the book? When the owner takes great pride in his collection? Disliked messes and clutter, going by his insistence to get clean before the party?

No, someone was at play before this servant was thrown out. Someone aware of the quirk of raothaar wood? This agent must be some sort of long-term plan by Gathard or an associate. This agent was skilled enough to evade the steward, who likely knew every member of the Randell household like the back of her hand, and operate with apparent impunity.

Primrose needed to do some work, and she needed to prepare before it was too late.

As the party returned to the dining hall, Primrose took a detour into the kitchen instead, only to be met with the steward herself. She stood as a bastion between Primrose and the carnage of the cooks bustling about and the din of pots, pans and more and eyed her like a true vermin.

“Excuse me, madam, you aren't supposed to be here," the steward said in a tired but firm tone.

Primrose pretended to act taken aback, but she took in the kitchen for a few more moments. The shelves weren't as full as she expected. The pantry was also a bit sparse. Ah, there; a dumbwaiter. The storage must be somewhere below and they used that small elevator to move what was needed. Primrose cleared her throat, and said, “forgive me, but I've had something of a craving all night. I wonder if I might be allowed a cursory glance in your pantry for a raothaari speciality_._"

The steward sighed and just barely held her eyes from rolling. “If you put in a request, I shall have it delivered to you, but the kitchen staff are already hard at work putting the finishing touches to the dessert. They are tired and need to clean before it gets overly late.“

Primrose raised her hands in apology. “Oh, it's nothing especially complicated. If I could trouble you for a bowl of yogurt with a few large tablespoons of yeast, seasoned with mace, nutmeg and lemon zest, please?"

The steward raised an eyebrow but nodded as Primrose returned to the others in the dining hall. The dessert was served, a large, individually portioned trifle, along with Primrose's unpleasant mixed yogurt. The dessert was potent with a fine sherry reduction drizzle, thick with decadent cream, citrus flavoured gelatin and even more alcohol on the sponge base.

Primrose polished off her meal, then slugged down wine as she met each glass with a spoonful of the yogurt until the bowl was empty. It was an old trick she'd learned from a 'lady of the night' to create an alibi when eating in public; the yeast apparently helped break down some of the alcohol, the excess eating (both the meal and the yogurt) helped too and the rest was good old fashioned raothaar toughness.

Primrose settled into a new character for the evening; a lush. She loosed a hard burp and playfully swatted Jacob's arm. “H-hey, Jacob? I'm just about... just done for the night, I think."

Isaac chuckled. “Well, she's got a backbone and guts, but apparently not for her drink. Eh, we'll be whittling away the hours yet, so go with my blessing, Mrs. Cathrop."

Jacob gave her a worried glance as she stood, bumped into him, and asked “do you want me to help you back to the guest house?"

Primrose snorted and giggled, “naw, you have fun! It's just down the stairs... and... down the stairs, and then out the door! Nothing to it!"

She staggered her way out of the dining hall and was followed by one of Isaac's guards all the way down and out of the estate proper, only returning to his duties once Primrose was back behind the guest house gate. Once the guard was gone, Primrose's strides became much more assured.

Gretchen was testing the string of her bow as she spotted Primrose's approach and gave her a wave. “You're back early. Usually the waffling goes on well past twelve bells."

Primrose nodded back. “I think I overindulged a bit, that's all. I'll sleep it off and be right as rain on the morrow."

The guardswoman shrugged and poked her tongue against her cheek where she was missing most of her teeth. “Aye, by your leave, Prim. All quiet here."

Inside, Primrose became even more steady as she entered her room and opened her travel case; she retrieved her tool belt and vambraces, changed into more rugged clothes and her cloak, as well as equipping Noran's Tooth.

She was still a bit woozy from the drink, so she also quaffed a flask of 'watcher's wit'. It was a bitter concoction, packed with enough caffeine from four strong cups of breakfast tea and a bunch of other mind-sharpening herbs. She doubted she would be getting much sleep tonight but she'd rather be a bit twitchy than slow and sluggish.

With a deep breath, she locked her bedroom door, removed a bar from her window, and made her way outside.

* * * *