Reitzlake was not a kingdom. And yet it had a king.
Damien Rimeaux strode across his ancestral hall, taller than any man present. The hearth fires dimmed in reverence as his billowing cloak swept up behind him.
Gallant and true, with eyes that shone as bright as the lake from which the city was named, the Smuggler King's footsteps echoed with grace and authority as he marched between the long rows of tables occupying his hall.
Behind those tables, the members of the Smugglers Guild stood and watched.
They wore unashamed smiles, some exchanging hands, some exchanging crowns, and some exchanging scandal. These lords and ladies of the sewers watched the proceedings with delight, even if some of them also used the opportunity to whisper a short-kept secret. In the shadows, retainers moved with a fleet-footedness which betrayed their backgrounds. Machinations were afoot. Betrayal was in the air. Blood was on the horizon.
And frankly, nobody cared.
After all, what were these gatherings for, if not to thoroughly reshape the pecking order of the kingdom's worst? They certainly weren't here for the music. That had been ghastly. The travelling troupe commissioned to perform at the banquet had murdered their own standing far more than a dagger by any of their competitors ever could. Even now, the shaking voice of the singer echoed in the ears of each attendee, long after he'd been shooed away by the castellan.
But even that could be forgiven.
Because again, frankly, nobody cared.
Keen eyes followed Lord Damien of House Rimeaux's footsteps. He'd aged better than the statues which graced his hall, his wrinkles hidden among his battle scars. He was less a man and more a legend from the pages of a fairytale.
To the nobility, he was a worthy ally, a distant scion of the only royal bloodline. To his subjects, he was their just and wise liege, demanding only what they could give and in turn be offered the safety of his protection. To the guests in this hall, he was the Smuggler King.
To Renise Rimeaux, he was her father.
The young woman watched with equal parts rapture and satisfaction as the man swept across the embroidered carpet. All around him shone their coat-of-arms, the silver star crowned upon a white peak. It caught against the hearth fires, twinkling from the shields of their guardsmen, the banners draped across their pillars and the length of her father's silver sword.
Silver. Enchanted silver.
The treasure of House Rimeaux, the proof of her father's deeds was unveiled. And so the watching smugglers practically wriggled in anticipation. Its reach bettered even the ancestral greatsword of House Tolent, and yet its shimmering, curved blade boasted a design many times as light. It was a spoil of war, exotic and magical, and that made it exciting.
But not, Renise knew, as exciting as the one who wielded it.
Her father stopped. He adopted no battle position. Even so, his posture was refined, and where his blade was silver, his sword arm was steel.
Ahead of him, the eyes of Lord Oliver Lepre widened in shock. The drunken fool's words had shattered the air as well as multiple wine glasses. Come what may, he would have to pay for them. Him or his next-of-kin.
“Smuggler King, I challenge you to a duel.”
If there was anything to replace the memory of the disappointing performance of the singer, it was this.
The words of a bumbling lord from a decrepit House. Why he was invited, Renise didn't know. Perhaps out of respect for his continued obstinance. Despite House Lepre falling from bad times to, well, terrible times, the ruined nature of his family's finances did nothing to stem his flow of incredulous boasts at these gatherings.
Those who had least spoke the loudest. And when professional entertainment was underwhelming, it made for a passable alternative.
Mismatched garments. An untrimmed beard. The stink of saltleaf. And more emptied bottles than servants by his side. He was a disgrace to nobility and smugglers alike. And thus he fit this gathering well. As Renise set her eyes on the families in attendance, she could scarcely believe how low they had fallen.
And yet here they were. Here they all were.
Renise wrinkled her nose, then turned to admire her father.
The Smuggler King waited, sword in hand. He had risen to the challenge, as had most of the hall, and yet his challenger had not. For a moment, there was only silence punctuated by the crackling hearths and the din of expectation. The gathered members and officers of the Smugglers Guild waited for the evening's entertainment.
And they had it.
Lord Oliver Lepre awkwardly rose, only now aware of the eyes on him. How long had it been since this minor lord of a forgotten family commanded the eyes of Reitzlake's proudest? Almost all the gutters had emptied for tonight's gathering.
For a moment, he almost looked pleased. And then he fumbled for the sword that was not there.
Ashen-faced, he patted around his hips. The effect was instantaneous. There was laughter. Biting, childish and cold.
Renise's father turned and faced his hall. His smile twinkled as brightly as the edge of his sword.
“Apologies to all present. The good Lord Oliver has misplaced his sword. Has anyone a blade worthy of his bravery?”
At once, the sound of steel being drawn echoed in the hall. Weapons were paraded in the air like flags atop a battlement. The guards shifted uncomfortably, their prayers loud amongst the sudden cheering.
Behind Renise, she knew the castellan was wincing. To her right, across the empty high seat, her mother sighed. Even her pale hair appeared wispier than usual.
“Idiots,” she bemoaned, before tucking into a cinnamon roll.
Renise nodded absently. They were all idiots. Worst, they were them.
They were the Smugglers Guild. And now they had won a great battle. A terrible war.
And now the next dance could finally begin.
Reitzlake was not a kingdom. And yet it had a king.
Damien Rimeaux strode across his ancestral hall, taller than any man present. The hearth fires dimmed in reverence as his billowing cloak swept up behind him.
Gallant and true, with eyes that shone as bright as the lake from which the city was named, the Smuggler King's footsteps echoed with grace and authority as he marched between the long rows of tables occupying his hall.
Behind those tables, the members of the Smugglers Guild stood and watched.
They wore unashamed smiles, some exchanging hands, some exchanging crowns, and some exchanging scandal. These lords and ladies of the sewers watched the proceedings with delight, even if some of them also used the opportunity to whisper a short-kept secret. In the shadows, retainers moved with a fleet-footedness which betrayed their backgrounds. Machinations were afoot. Betrayal was in the air. Blood was on the horizon.
And frankly, nobody cared.
After all, what were these gatherings for, if not to thoroughly reshape the pecking order of the kingdom's worst? They certainly weren't here for the music. That had been ghastly. The travelling troupe commissioned to perform at the banquet had murdered their own standing far more than a dagger by any of their competitors ever could. Even now, the shaking voice of the singer echoed in the ears of each attendee, long after he'd been shooed away by the castellan.
But even that could be forgiven.
Because again, frankly, nobody cared.
Keen eyes followed Lord Damien of House Rimeaux's footsteps. He'd aged better than the statues which graced his hall, his wrinkles hidden among his battle scars. He was less a man and more a legend from the pages of a fairytale.
To the nobility, he was a worthy ally, a distant scion of the only royal bloodline. To his subjects, he was their just and wise liege, demanding only what they could give and in turn be offered the safety of his protection. To the guests in this hall, he was the Smuggler King.
To Renise Rimeaux, he was her father.
The young woman watched with equal parts rapture and satisfaction as the man swept across the embroidered carpet. All around him shone their coat-of-arms, the silver star crowned upon a white peak. It caught against the hearth fires, twinkling from the shields of their guardsmen, the banners draped across their pillars and the length of her father's silver sword.
Silver. Enchanted silver.
The treasure of House Rimeaux, the proof of her father's deeds was unveiled. And so the watching smugglers practically wriggled in anticipation. Its reach bettered even the ancestral greatsword of House Tolent, and yet its shimmering, curved blade boasted a design many times as light. It was a spoil of war, exotic and magical, and that made it exciting.
But not, Renise knew, as exciting as the one who wielded it.
Her father stopped. He adopted no battle position. Even so, his posture was refined, and where his blade was silver, his sword arm was steel.
Ahead of him, the eyes of Lord Oliver Lepre widened in shock. The drunken fool's words had shattered the air as well as multiple wine glasses. Come what may, he would have to pay for them. Him or his next-of-kin.
“Smuggler King, I challenge you to a duel.”
If there was anything to replace the memory of the disappointing performance of the singer, it was this.
The words of a bumbling lord from a decrepit House. Why he was invited, Renise didn't know. Perhaps out of respect for his continued obstinance. Despite House Lepre falling from bad times to, well, terrible times, the ruined nature of his family's finances did nothing to stem his flow of incredulous boasts at these gatherings.
Those who had least spoke the loudest. And when professional entertainment was underwhelming, it made for a passable alternative.
Mismatched garments. An untrimmed beard. The stink of saltleaf. And more emptied bottles than servants by his side. He was a disgrace to nobility and smugglers alike. And thus he fit this gathering well. As Renise set her eyes on the families in attendance, she could scarcely believe how low they had fallen.
And yet here they were. Here they all were.
Renise wrinkled her nose, then turned to admire her father.
The Smuggler King waited, sword in hand. He had risen to the challenge, as had most of the hall, and yet his challenger had not. For a moment, there was only silence punctuated by the crackling hearths and the din of expectation. The gathered members and officers of the Smugglers Guild waited for the evening's entertainment.
And they had it.
Lord Oliver Lepre awkwardly rose, only now aware of the eyes on him. How long had it been since this minor lord of a forgotten family commanded the eyes of Reitzlake's proudest? Almost all the gutters had emptied for tonight's gathering.
For a moment, he almost looked pleased. And then he fumbled for the sword that was not there.
Ashen-faced, he patted around his hips. The effect was instantaneous. There was laughter. Biting, childish and cold.
Renise's father turned and faced his hall. His smile twinkled as brightly as the edge of his sword.
“Apologies to all present. The good Lord Oliver has misplaced his sword. Has anyone a blade worthy of his bravery?”
At once, the sound of steel being drawn echoed in the hall. Weapons were paraded in the air like flags atop a battlement. The guards shifted uncomfortably, their prayers loud amongst the sudden cheering.
Behind Renise, she knew the castellan was wincing. To her right, across the empty high seat, her mother sighed. Even her pale hair appeared wispier than usual.
“Idiots,” she bemoaned, before tucking into a cinnamon roll.
Renise nodded absently. They were all idiots. Worst, they were them.
They were the Smugglers Guild. And now they had won a great battle. A terrible war.
And now the next dance could finally begin.
