Arc 8-130
“There he is.”
“I have only seen livestock so round. Do the humans in Rosentheim practice, hm… how do I say… eating each other? Has he been fattened for a feast?”
“Play nice,” I hiss to the sarcastic elf at my side. “We need something from him.”
Though I have to agree with Kierra. Wendell Grainger is a large man, in every proportion. It’s beyond the point that even clothes can hide, the man resembling a walking ball. However, despite his slow and laborious pace as he makes his way to my front door, he wears a smug smile, his ego wrapped around his shoulders as firmly as his coat.
Madame Teppin was given significant powers of negotiation to entice a merchant to the city. One of the many promises made to the lucky opportunists was the opportunity to be hosted by the lady of the city. Unfortunately, that means I have to put up with the presence of a noble with a truly noxious reputation, and I won’t be able to hide him away in the servants’ quarters.
The former lady is a diligent worker. Once she secured an agreement with the Graingers, she looked for information about him beyond his connection to his powerful family. This Wendell is a rat in fine clothing. The kingdom knows him as a swindler, a pilferer, and a rotten hedonist. The last one I could excuse, but his indulgence of choice is rather profane; he’s addicted to power. Power over people, to be specific.
The history books—or those that most nobles are taught from—tell us of the old kingdoms and their traditions that divided humanity. Among them is slavery, a barbaric practice where people are bought and traded like livestock. Nobles may treat their peasants like trash, but that’s because they are shitty people, not because of some ridiculous idea that they are worth more than the people they govern. It may be a heroic challenge, but Marquis Guinness and Dunwayne are proof that people can rise from modest beginnings to the heights of the kingdom.
In Harvest, slavery and many other dividing traditions were outlawed by the First King. However, there are ways of dancing around the law. According to the rumors Madame Teppin gathered, this Wendell uses people’s good natures to entrap them. He’s known for giving out loans and taking chances on new businesses. If they succeed, he makes a profit on the loan’s interest. If they fail, well. Then he collects in flesh. Servitude, given willingly—though how much that willingness matters when the alternative is their families losing everything and starving to death is questionable.
People will do great things for the people they love. Great and terrible things.
If I didn’t need this bastard, I’d gut him and have Gajin use him for fertilizer. Saints, I might still do it regardless. But for the city, for the future, I’ll put up with him. Tolerating him doesn’t mean I can’t still have my fun. My fake smile gains a touch of malicious warmth as I think about our plans for the merchant.
“Lady Tome-Delarre,” he heaves as he finally reaches us. Beside him, a woman dressed in a teenage boy’s fantasy of a servant’s dress hands him a handkerchief to wipe his brow, her dark eyes dull as her full chest strains against the minimal fabric covering it. “A pleasure to finally meet you. Your name must have graced thousands of lips in Rosentheim, but they never speak of your ravishing beauty. A great disservice to all.”
He sticks out a meaty hand. I imagine what it will feel like to have his dry lips kiss the back of my hand, as he no doubt intends. Then I put on my best oblivious smile and ignore it.
“The pleasure is mine, Lord Grainger. This is my wife, Kierra D’Atainna.”
“The elf of Harvest. Another legend. If all elven women look like you, I would stake my life that Paradise is to the south.” His hand stubbornly remains extended.
Kierra ignores it. “Is it not your city? I hear it is a place of abundance.”
Dammit, Kii. Don’t make me laugh.
“The City of Roses is without a doubt the jewel of the kingdom,” he says, his prideful words soured by his tone as his hand drops to his side. “It has endured centuries of prosperity. I can’t fault the lady for wanting a taste of its, as you say, abundance.”
Oooh. Already with the threats. Better treat him well or there goes the food.
“New Quest has its charms. Have you sorted your caravan?” I look past his shoulder to the dozen or so carriages organizing themselves on my front yard. No matter his faults, it seems he keeps his word. I can smell the sweets and bitters of fresh produce. “If so, Earl will escort you to your room.”
“An honor, your lordship.”
Wendell jumps, stifling an undignified sound as my steward seemingly materializes from nothing beside me. His maid blinks, the most her face has moved since I spotted the pair.
He clears his throat. “Yes, that will do. For the evening meal, I’ve prepared a few selections, to give the lady an example of my wares.”
Saints, that smarmy smile. Does he think we are starving orphans grateful for every scrap from his plate? “Most kind. However, dinner has already been prepared. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”
“Of course not. The best chefs can make meals even out of scraps.”
I watch him enter the estate with a strained smile. “One night,” I mutter, not sure if I’m directing the words to myself or a frowning Kierra. “Two at the most.”
“Then we will roll him through the gates.”
“Pfft. Funny as the thought of a human ball is, I don’t want to make the mess for the guards. They just got their new uniforms.” Though I have no idea where Talia found all the fabric for them.
“Mm. At least his reaction to the pets will be amusing.”
—
The table isn’t quite the same without the quiet pressure of Orum and Morgene posed provocatively at the other end. Wendell and his maid make for poor replacements, an opinion shared by the entire clan given the frowns throughout the room. I don’t want to imagine what Talia is picking up from the pair and don’t know what particular fault has irked my lovely knight, but I take the most offense from the way he leers at Geneva while the succubus serves dinner. I expected it and it’s part of the plan, but it still irks me. Reminds me too much of the Grimoires.
“This smells amazing,” Wendell compliments.
“I’m proud of my pets,” I say. “You should try the Herbanacle. It’s the sole spirit served in the Golden Feathers, if you didn’t know.”
“I never drink spirits before a negotiation,” he says. “Wine will be fine.”
Hah. Fool. The wine’s worse. Not strictly a part of the plan, but a variable we accounted for.
“We have a decent selection.”
“I’m sure, but you haven’t lived until you try Gold & Finery. It is the vintage created by my family, perfected over generations. The grapes used to make it are truly gold, that gleam almost as brilliantly as the metal.”
That doesn’t sound healthy. “Well, we source our wine from the same brewery that makes the Herbanacle. He uses techniques from the elven continent.”
“Truly?” He stops staring at Geneva’s chest as he raises his cup, swirling the liquid inside. “Has the marquis sampled this?”
“Marquis Guinness is obsessed with other treasures of the elven continent, though I told him he could make a small fortune selling their wine.”
“Perhaps our negotiations can cover more than grain then.” He smiles as he takes his first sip, only for the expression to collapse once he pulls the cup away. I duck my head as I cover my mouth with my fingers; saints, could he be any more obvious? If that wasn’t his generations of perfection being utterly stomped into oblivion, I’ll eat my fingers. Better yet, I’ll feed them to Bell; she’ll appreciate it more.
“How does it compare?” Kierra asks teasingly.
“…a very fine vintage,” he admits begrudgingly. “Though it is rather weak. It might be better called juice.”
We’ll see if he’s saying that in an hour, if he can talk. “Please, eat up. Business can wait.”
He does, picking up his fork and taking his first bite. After that, he doesn’t stop, shoveling down food and guzzling wine. It’s an obscene display, one that nearly puts me off my own dinner, but I manage to persevere through the sounds of a pig slopping. Mainly by watching his maid; I can’t imagine what has left her so apathetic to the world, but not even her detachment can escape the majesty that is Geneva’s cooking. Her face flushes and a small amount of light returns to her eyes as she eats, her slow relish a counterpoint to the gluttonous storm beside her.
After an hour, Wendell is passed out in his chair, the “juice” catching up with him.
“Of course he snores,” Alana says disdainfully, staring at the passed-out pig of a man. “This part of the plan?”
“Mmhmm. Tomorrow, when we negotiate, I’m going to present him with an ultimatum. Deal with me fairly and get access to the otherworldly delights he’s just tasted, or screw with me and be booted from the city.” Poor man. He thinks I’m desperate and that he’ll take everything of value I have. What he doesn’t know is that restoring the status quo is a mercy to the people and Harvest. If I want—if I must—I can turn New Quest into an agricultural giant that dwarfs Rosentheim, but that’ll ruin uncountable lives. I don’t want to, but it gives me the freedom to negotiate freely.
“He doesn’t strike me as a reasonable type.”
“He’s not. He’s the type that’s not alive unless he’s screwing someone over. That’s why I’ll let him upcharge his wares. It’s not like we need the gold.” Once, I thought I’d need a fortune to provide a future for Kierra. Now, it’s becoming more evident that gold is only good to keep me from taking whatever I want. “He leaves New Quest happy and with a motive to stay on my good side, the kingdom sees the city isn’t a death zone. Everyone’s happy.”
“Except us.”
I sigh as Wendell snores particularly loud. “Two nights, sweetie. Maybe three.”