Lord Oliver of House Lepre lay bruised on the carpet, his borrowed sword forgotten and tainted beside him. Renise's father had ensured he hadn't landed on the stonework, a feat that further delighted the crowd.
There was something to be said about a duel between expert swordsmen.
There was another to be said about a man leading another as though he were a pony on a rein.
It was, as expected, no contest. The Smuggler King's footwork was exemplary, his swordplay mesmerising, and his showmanship the finest of all.
In truth, the only danger was that one of Lord Oliver's wild swings would have impaled his borrowed sword into one of the other guests. It at least would have made them stop laughing.
Some of them, anyway. A missed opportunity.
The Smuggler King stood triumphant, unabashed at having defeated such a poorly mismatched foe. He nodded towards the acclaim and the applause nonetheless. It was his great flaw. His one weakness. He strove for adoration like an emerald dragon pillaging mountain halls for gemstones.
And that wasn't a terrible thing.
Renise knew it was better to build the road of devotion than to carve the path of tyranny. That was what it meant to be a king. And maybe that was why Reitzlake had none other than him—not even when Tirea's actual king sat the throne.
Her father swished his sword in a forward crescent, slowly, before pirouetting and thrusting at an invisible enemy. The very air seemed to part ways for his sword. He tossed it underarm with a light flick, before catching it with his other hand and scything with a windmilling attack. Suddenly, it had become a dancing display. The crowd pleaser performance of a former B-rank swordsman.
Lord Oliver struggled to his feet, bowing, then tripped over his fallen leggings as he made his ignominious escape. There was a wide berth around his chair.
Renise turned to the whooping crowd. Whooping. Like dock workers playing at dice. The young woman was bemused. She didn't know they could remember how to act uncouth in this hall. Had they forgotten where they were?
No, it's more accurate to say they never knew where they were to begin with.
There were too many strangers here. Far too many. It was a damning indictment that the drunkard on the floor was by no means the least of those present.
No, if she was lucky, she'd be able to sneak out during one of the speeches. There'd be more than enough opportunities. And the Salty Mermaid was always open. What was Bell doing right now? Likely upending a table after having her tips fleeced, then sending Gab and Lou to the sisters for a broken nose and a broken heart respectively. Now that was more entertaining than speeches. And marginally bloodier.
A cough sounded beside Renise. She looked over at her mother. The respected woman was still eating the cinnamon bun. Or rather, pretending to nibble at it. Other ladies of the court used masks, fans or blushes. She used food.
Truly, as formidable as they came.
“Renise, dear, you're making that face again,” she tuttered.
“What face?” asked Renise, pondering how much trouble she'd fall in if she flicked at her pastry.
“The one you make while single-handedly dismantling alliances. You are the heiress of House Rimeaux. The only heiress. You must act with the grace and dignity that befits your station, or utterly failing that, eat fast enough that your suitors can't make out your dire expression.”
“Actually eat, or pretend?” Renise shifted awkwardly in her dress, blue as her air deprived face. Even with her slim frame, breathing comprehensively was still a luxury. “Because there's no possibility for anything solid to gain entry.”
Her mother's smile didn't reach her eyes. It was this woman's favourite expression, just after righteous exasperation upon discovering that the castellan had fetched Renise from the edges of a dockside brawl again, her towngirl clothing flaked with saltwater and sweat.
The castellan never told her about the times he'd caught Renise in the middle of them.
“Actually eat. You've grown worryingly emaciated. Tell me, dear, when did you stop extorting cakes in the middle of the night?”
Renise paused before answering.
The escapes from the postern gate was one thing. But how did her mother know about the kitchen raids? Did she have an ear among the cooking staff? A spy among the guards sworn to whistle at the wall while she shot past with an armful of blueberry muffins?
It was troubling for Renise to think that her confidence had already been betrayed. She considered offering a share of the plunder. And yet there was no beating the resources of this woman.
It was as they say, the first Dance began at home. Although Renise also imagined that the winnings weren't usually baked confectionery.
“I never extorted. I asked.”
She received a raised eyebrow. It always bemused Renise how expressive her mother could be when so little else of her face bothered moving.
“The heiress of House Rimeaux doesn't ask. Your profession forbids it.”
Her profession.
Renise wore a grimacing smile as she considered that. What was her profession? She was the daughter of a lord and a lady. And also a smuggler king and queen. She was an heiress. But to which?
“Mind yourself, dear. Lord Harland's boy watches you. And Lady Arla's daughters watch him.”
Renise sat up straighter, instantly seizing a cinnamon roll to hide her boorish expression. She didn't glance to confirm where the boy was looking, but could feel the clumsy gaze on her nonetheless. The poor thing. The dances they shared now were different to the ones they did when they were children. It would be better for him to realise this quickly.
Renise adjusted her posture.
A high gathering of the Smugglers Guild. Oh, how delightful the little schemes on offer tonight were. The to and fro of half-truths and slander. The macabre waltz of promises and deceit ... and if Renise wasn't bored senseless just thinking about it, then perhaps she wouldn't already be planning which speech to excuse herself at.
Meanwhile, her mother's eyes continually scanned the guests, inviting a nod, a smile, a toast. Few actually caught her gaze. There was, after all, a very colourful man showboating in the middle of the hall.
“I'm unsure, Renise,” she suddenly murmured, her expression giving nothing away. “Something rather feels amiss. The atmosphere is ... too muted.”
Renise, for her part, didn't bother hiding her look of incredulity. It earned an instant reprisal in the form of ... nothing at all.
Where she expected a tut, she instead continued receiving the curious sight of her mother smiling as she took in each of the attendees like an owl searching for prey at night.
“There are people cheering as though at the horses,” said Renise, not knowing what other proof to provide. “I've never seen the like. And half the guests are either drunk or on saltleaf. The first speech hasn't even begun. That sort of sloppiness would usually never be condoned.”
“Yes, this is true. The stench. Quite gruelling. Do promise you'll never indulge in it, will you?”
“I promise.”
“The consequences, by the way—”
“I promise.”
Her mother nodded. This seemed to relax her. Not that Renise knew she wasn't relaxed before. Even after admitting her unease, she was the picture of a noble lady. The famed Sabilla Rimeaux, the only person in the world to have a leash on the Smuggler King.
And that only made sense.
She was, after all, the most frightening of anyone here.
“It begins,” said the Smuggler Queen, her eyes suddenly fixed on the man ahead. Her husband. Renise's father. The hero of all. “Listen well. For all his quirks, your father understands how to rouse with a speech. This will be the greatest night in the Smugglers Guild.”
Renise nodded, lowering her cinnamon roll in comical tandem with hers.
It was time.
Connected by whatever magical spell these smugglers used to feel out emotion, the mood changed. A hush fell across the hall. The swordsmanship display was done, and now Renise's father sheathed his silver blade and called for wine.
This time, it was no servant that hurried to attend him. It was the castellan, his hands betraying a gentle quiver despite his long years of service. Renise understood why. What he carried was worth more than the sum of most minor Houses combined.
A single glass of fae wine.
Amber as the rising sun and deeper than the night sky. Its fragrance boasted of forests that were already ancient when the first ships landed en masse on these shores. The contents shimmered as though spiced with stardust.
It was a treasure. A precious find. A memory.
And absurdly expensive.
Seized from the stash of the Dancing Rat, it marked proof of the final incursion and the lasting triumph against the Thieves Guild. They were defeated as an entity, their traps broken, their arrows spent, and their citadels in the sewers pillaged and plundered. A once great criminal enterprise would never again compete for control over Reitzlake, nor raise a glass again to their Goddess of luck.
No ... that last toast would be by Renise's father. And those few deemed appropriate.
Slowly, painfully, the most trusted attendants sought out their marks. First it was Renise's mother, the Smuggler Queen. Then it was her, Princess of Brawling and Midnight Snacking.
And then, the attendants found Sir Albert Perrot, who led the shieldwall into the sewers. Grim, the steadfast rock of the guild. Baroness Marion Barischt, whose hired mercenaries were first to enter the fray. Tabitha Renne, who rallied the common hands in the streets.
To these few, four glasses were offered and four were accepted. They were the trusted officers that had fought beside the Smuggler King. There would be repercussions. New alliances and new grudges. But that was politics. That was normal. Especially for smugglers. And for Lord Damien Rimeaux, that was all quite beneath him.
The Smuggler King of Reitzlake held up his glass—then downed it in one glug.
Not like a king sipping treasure. But like a sailor inhaling ale at a bar.
For a moment, there was no movement from the shocked attendees as Renise's father glugged down the priceless wine. Then the watching crowd raised their own glasses and followed suit. Renise heard her mother give a long sigh while they were distracted. Her glass proceeded to go down with even more vigour than them all.
Renise herself smiled as her father broke all expectation. True, he hadn't laid waste to decorum as he usually did. But this was no toast. No eulogy to the fallen. But Renise's father was more than the Smuggler King. He was an eccentric.
And Renise was used to it.
Thus, she raised her glass to her lips, pausing before drinking the precious liquid as she was mesmerised by the glittering surface. The scent was overpowering. Intoxicating.
It was magic.
In that one moment, she was whisked away to a different age, a different place, where steel had not yet been forged and the fae had not yet written themselves into the dreams of children. A better time, without war, banquets and asphyxiating dresses.
It was a waste to drink it. She knew that at once.
But it was also a waste not to drink it.
Thus, Renise gently tipped the glass—
Then promptly gave a gasp of shock as the wine was snatched away from her.
Eyes wide, she looked to the side. Lord Oliver Lepre, his stench hidden among the wafting aroma of the fae wine, had meandered over. Nobody had sought to stop him. Nobody wanted to. He was a drunk and a fool, and he embarrassed himself where and when he wished.
But this.
This was too much.
“Lord Oliver,” began Renise, her voice a croak.
All the eyes of the hall turned to them. The castellan rushed over at a speed which belied his age. But not enough.
Lord Oliver raised the glass high in the air, and Renise may or may not have said something deeply unseemly.
Because the man proceeded to pour the priceless wine over his chin.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A strangled cry came from the corner of the hall. Elsewhere, a glass shattered against the stone floor. That was good. The carpet had been spared. Very, very good.
Lord Oliver looked up at his glass, evidently confused as to why he was not floating in the clouds as far as his taste buds were concerned. His narrowed eyes peered into the hollow where the liquid had been resting, before he offered the glass back to Renise.
“Lady Lenisha,” he said, his voice slurred as he stumbled backwards. “Your wine... it is of most excellent quality.”
Renise took the glass, checking it for a drop of amber. There was none. It was on the man's chin, his doublet, and the floor.
She had no doubt that even spilled, it was worth its weight in gold. And yet seeing it mixed among the food stains and the print of this man's muddy shoes, she decided that she would offer no challenge should a smuggler opt to salvage what they could.
Renise waited. They all did. The eyes of the crowd turned to the castellan as his hands shook against the hilt of his sword. Wine was wine. And yet this was anything but. The last memory of the Winter Queen, now watering a man's stubble.
The shock ran through Renise. And then anger. It flared inside her as she rose from her chair, and her hand stung as it slapped against the face of the fool. The sound bit into the air like the crack of a whip and Lord Oliver stumbled backwards, falling to the carpet. The damn carpet. At least hit the hard stone.
She was incensed. She was speechless. This disgrace of a nobleman, invited on no more than a charitable whim! Renise didn't care for the drunkenness, no matter how egregious it was. He'd squandered her father's treasure. A man who had never seen war had just flushed down the spoils of a man who saw too much of it.
Renise held onto the hard back of her chair. She wanted to strike him again. And she didn't know with what.
“Hahahahaha!”
And then came the laughter.
Boisterous and wild, it was the laughter of an adventurer in his youth, a captain in his prime and a father sparring with his daughter using far too sharpened swords in his greying years. It was laughter Renise recognised well, usually because it came at the most inappropriate of times.
And always without fail.
“You see, my fair friends?” called our the Smuggler King, his wide smile sweeping away the calls for Lord Oliver's life before they came. “We raise a glass to the fallen, but what joy do they feel when we drink in their honour? Do they also taste it, feeling the bliss of life and savouring the taste of triumph? No, I think not. They look and judge as we wallow in the hubris of our revelry.”
Renise's father raised his arms out, then allowed his glass to shatter against the floor. To everyone's shock, a remaining dribble of amber was allowed to seep into the stonework.
“My good friends, to respect those who we have lost, we must endure. For is it not true that the Thieves Guild still exists, hiding in the shadows of the deepest tunnels of our city? No, this war has ended. But the Thieves Guild has not. Their coin is spent, but their purpose is undiminished. Those that remain will use the very shadows against us. We do not deserve this night. Not while it now shelters our enemies. Lord Oliver is the worthiest of us all, and I begrudge him for not instilling this lesson to us earlier.”
He pointed at a young servant. The poor boy jumped at being directly addressed by the king. On the floor, Lord Oliver groaned, nursing the back of his head with one hand while another reached for a bottle of wine far away on the table.
“Water! And I'll have nothing else. Not until the deed is done. Come, join me in this new vow! You will need it. Great victories demands celebration, but the greatest has yet to arrive. For wine, you may find it in the Salty Mermaid, where warm words of victory will be offered long into the night. But here in my estate, I would wait until I am sure that no arrows will find me in my short hours of sleep.”
The servant scampered, his feet rushing for a jug of water, before he paused, fumbled and went back for an empty cup, too.
Renise smiled, holding her hands to her mouth to stop the laughter.
Her father, swearing a vow of abstinence? Just to rescue a drunkard from a mob of smugglers? It was just like him. The madness of it. How he was going to talk his way out of this one, she had no idea. Her mother would hold this promise to him for life. So would Renise. The moment he so much as sniffed at another glass of wine, she would pour it over his face just as Lord Oliver had.
He wouldn't last two days. It was going to be wonderful.
“......”
And as Renise thought that, she realised that something was very wrong.
No ... Not just something.
Everything.
An intuition drilled in her. Not by years of court. But by the hush of a dockside crowd as a street brute came to a brawl armed not with fists, but knives and broken bottles.
A chill ran up Renise's spine as she lowered her hands. Her smile had vanished. Because hers was the only one present. Only tightly pursed lips surrounded her, the secrets and scandals silenced.
This wasn't right. It was a tragic waste, true. The fae wine was invaluable. The insult to civility appalling. But this reaction... it was all wrong.
There was no recrimination for Lord Oliver spilling the fae wine. There was no cheering for the Smuggler King's latest round of bluster. There was no laughter for the servant struggling to fetch a cup of water.
There was only a deathly quiet.
And Renise knew something terrible was about to happen.
She blinked at the faces standing behind the tables, cups to their lips. A whisper. A murmur. But she could neither spy the words, nor the expressions. The fires in the hearth. They'd dimmed so low that the eyes were hidden from her, and yet the shadows still reached the figure standing alone in the centre of the hall.
The servant returned with a cup of water. He then gasped, dropping it to his feet as he scrambled away.
Renise's father had drawn his sword. But this time, there was no scything arc. No dazzling display. It was purposeful and slow, and he stabbed the point into the hard stone to an uplift of dust.
He then sighed, leaning against the hilt with both hands.
“Ah. Should have known. Bugger.”
The smile, too, had vanished from his lips. The words of friendship, the sounds of laughter, all of it became wind as empty as the coldness in his usually bright eyes. And Renise knew with a dreadful beating in her chest that it was already too late.
Too, too late.
Lord Oliver of House Lepre lay bruised on the carpet, his borrowed sword forgotten and tainted beside him. Renise's father had ensured he hadn't landed on the stonework, a feat that further delighted the crowd.
There was something to be said about a duel between expert swordsmen.
There was another to be said about a man leading another as though he were a pony on a rein.
It was, as expected, no contest. The Smuggler King's footwork was exemplary, his swordplay mesmerising, and his showmanship the finest of all.
In truth, the only danger was that one of Lord Oliver's wild swings would have impaled his borrowed sword into one of the other guests. It at least would have made them stop laughing.
Some of them, anyway. A missed opportunity.
The Smuggler King stood triumphant, unabashed at having defeated such a poorly mismatched foe. He nodded towards the acclaim and the applause nonetheless. It was his great flaw. His one weakness. He strove for adoration like an emerald dragon pillaging mountain halls for gemstones.
And that wasn't a terrible thing.
Renise knew it was better to build the road of devotion than to carve the path of tyranny. That was what it meant to be a king. And maybe that was why Reitzlake had none other than him—not even when Tirea's actual king sat the throne.
Her father swished his sword in a forward crescent, slowly, before pirouetting and thrusting at an invisible enemy. The very air seemed to part ways for his sword. He tossed it underarm with a light flick, before catching it with his other hand and scything with a windmilling attack. Suddenly, it had become a dancing display. The crowd pleaser performance of a former B-rank swordsman.
Lord Oliver struggled to his feet, bowing, then tripped over his fallen leggings as he made his ignominious escape. There was a wide berth around his chair.
Renise turned to the whooping crowd. Whooping. Like dock workers playing at dice. The young woman was bemused. She didn't know they could remember how to act uncouth in this hall. Had they forgotten where they were?
No, it's more accurate to say they never knew where they were to begin with.
There were too many strangers here. Far too many. It was a damning indictment that the drunkard on the floor was by no means the least of those present.
No, if she was lucky, she'd be able to sneak out during one of the speeches. There'd be more than enough opportunities. And the Salty Mermaid was always open. What was Bell doing right now? Likely upending a table after having her tips fleeced, then sending Gab and Lou to the sisters for a broken nose and a broken heart respectively. Now that was more entertaining than speeches. And marginally bloodier.
A cough sounded beside Renise. She looked over at her mother. The respected woman was still eating the cinnamon bun. Or rather, pretending to nibble at it. Other ladies of the court used masks, fans or blushes. She used food.
Truly, as formidable as they came.
“Renise, dear, you're making that face again,” she tuttered.
“What face?” asked Renise, pondering how much trouble she'd fall in if she flicked at her pastry.
“The one you make while single-handedly dismantling alliances. You are the heiress of House Rimeaux. The only heiress. You must act with the grace and dignity that befits your station, or utterly failing that, eat fast enough that your suitors can't make out your dire expression.”
“Actually eat, or pretend?” Renise shifted awkwardly in her dress, blue as her air deprived face. Even with her slim frame, breathing comprehensively was still a luxury. “Because there's no possibility for anything solid to gain entry.”
Her mother's smile didn't reach her eyes. It was this woman's favourite expression, just after righteous exasperation upon discovering that the castellan had fetched Renise from the edges of a dockside brawl again, her towngirl clothing flaked with saltwater and sweat.
The castellan never told her about the times he'd caught Renise in the middle of them.
“Actually eat. You've grown worryingly emaciated. Tell me, dear, when did you stop extorting cakes in the middle of the night?”
Renise paused before answering.
The escapes from the postern gate was one thing. But how did her mother know about the kitchen raids? Did she have an ear among the cooking staff? A spy among the guards sworn to whistle at the wall while she shot past with an armful of blueberry muffins?
It was troubling for Renise to think that her confidence had already been betrayed. She considered offering a share of the plunder. And yet there was no beating the resources of this woman.
It was as they say, the first Dance began at home. Although Renise also imagined that the winnings weren't usually baked confectionery.
“I never extorted. I asked.”
She received a raised eyebrow. It always bemused Renise how expressive her mother could be when so little else of her face bothered moving.
“The heiress of House Rimeaux doesn't ask. Your profession forbids it.”
Her profession.
Renise wore a grimacing smile as she considered that. What was her profession? She was the daughter of a lord and a lady. And also a smuggler king and queen. She was an heiress. But to which?
“Mind yourself, dear. Lord Harland's boy watches you. And Lady Arla's daughters watch him.”
Renise sat up straighter, instantly seizing a cinnamon roll to hide her boorish expression. She didn't glance to confirm where the boy was looking, but could feel the clumsy gaze on her nonetheless. The poor thing. The dances they shared now were different to the ones they did when they were children. It would be better for him to realise this quickly.
Renise adjusted her posture.
A high gathering of the Smugglers Guild. Oh, how delightful the little schemes on offer tonight were. The to and fro of half-truths and slander. The macabre waltz of promises and deceit ... and if Renise wasn't bored senseless just thinking about it, then perhaps she wouldn't already be planning which speech to excuse herself at.
Meanwhile, her mother's eyes continually scanned the guests, inviting a nod, a smile, a toast. Few actually caught her gaze. There was, after all, a very colourful man showboating in the middle of the hall.
“I'm unsure, Renise,” she suddenly murmured, her expression giving nothing away. “Something rather feels amiss. The atmosphere is ... too muted.”
Renise, for her part, didn't bother hiding her look of incredulity. It earned an instant reprisal in the form of ... nothing at all.
Where she expected a tut, she instead continued receiving the curious sight of her mother smiling as she took in each of the attendees like an owl searching for prey at night.
“There are people cheering as though at the horses,” said Renise, not knowing what other proof to provide. “I've never seen the like. And half the guests are either drunk or on saltleaf. The first speech hasn't even begun. That sort of sloppiness would usually never be condoned.”
“Yes, this is true. The stench. Quite gruelling. Do promise you'll never indulge in it, will you?”
“I promise.”
“The consequences, by the way—”
“I promise.”
Her mother nodded. This seemed to relax her. Not that Renise knew she wasn't relaxed before. Even after admitting her unease, she was the picture of a noble lady. The famed Sabilla Rimeaux, the only person in the world to have a leash on the Smuggler King.
And that only made sense.
She was, after all, the most frightening of anyone here.
“It begins,” said the Smuggler Queen, her eyes suddenly fixed on the man ahead. Her husband. Renise's father. The hero of all. “Listen well. For all his quirks, your father understands how to rouse with a speech. This will be the greatest night in the Smugglers Guild.”
Renise nodded, lowering her cinnamon roll in comical tandem with hers.
It was time.
Connected by whatever magical spell these smugglers used to feel out emotion, the mood changed. A hush fell across the hall. The swordsmanship display was done, and now Renise's father sheathed his silver blade and called for wine.
This time, it was no servant that hurried to attend him. It was the castellan, his hands betraying a gentle quiver despite his long years of service. Renise understood why. What he carried was worth more than the sum of most minor Houses combined.
A single glass of fae wine.
Amber as the rising sun and deeper than the night sky. Its fragrance boasted of forests that were already ancient when the first ships landed en masse on these shores. The contents shimmered as though spiced with stardust.
It was a treasure. A precious find. A memory.
And absurdly expensive.
Seized from the stash of the Dancing Rat, it marked proof of the final incursion and the lasting triumph against the Thieves Guild. They were defeated as an entity, their traps broken, their arrows spent, and their citadels in the sewers pillaged and plundered. A once great criminal enterprise would never again compete for control over Reitzlake, nor raise a glass again to their Goddess of luck.
No ... that last toast would be by Renise's father. And those few deemed appropriate.
Slowly, painfully, the most trusted attendants sought out their marks. First it was Renise's mother, the Smuggler Queen. Then it was her, Princess of Brawling and Midnight Snacking.
And then, the attendants found Sir Albert Perrot, who led the shieldwall into the sewers. Grim, the steadfast rock of the guild. Baroness Marion Barischt, whose hired mercenaries were first to enter the fray. Tabitha Renne, who rallied the common hands in the streets.
To these few, four glasses were offered and four were accepted. They were the trusted officers that had fought beside the Smuggler King. There would be repercussions. New alliances and new grudges. But that was politics. That was normal. Especially for smugglers. And for Lord Damien Rimeaux, that was all quite beneath him.
The Smuggler King of Reitzlake held up his glass—then downed it in one glug.
Not like a king sipping treasure. But like a sailor inhaling ale at a bar.
For a moment, there was no movement from the shocked attendees as Renise's father glugged down the priceless wine. Then the watching crowd raised their own glasses and followed suit. Renise heard her mother give a long sigh while they were distracted. Her glass proceeded to go down with even more vigour than them all.
Renise herself smiled as her father broke all expectation. True, he hadn't laid waste to decorum as he usually did. But this was no toast. No eulogy to the fallen. But Renise's father was more than the Smuggler King. He was an eccentric.
And Renise was used to it.
Thus, she raised her glass to her lips, pausing before drinking the precious liquid as she was mesmerised by the glittering surface. The scent was overpowering. Intoxicating.
It was magic.
In that one moment, she was whisked away to a different age, a different place, where steel had not yet been forged and the fae had not yet written themselves into the dreams of children. A better time, without war, banquets and asphyxiating dresses.
It was a waste to drink it. She knew that at once.
But it was also a waste not to drink it.
Thus, Renise gently tipped the glass—
Then promptly gave a gasp of shock as the wine was snatched away from her.
Eyes wide, she looked to the side. Lord Oliver Lepre, his stench hidden among the wafting aroma of the fae wine, had meandered over. Nobody had sought to stop him. Nobody wanted to. He was a drunk and a fool, and he embarrassed himself where and when he wished.
But this.
This was too much.
“Lord Oliver,” began Renise, her voice a croak.
All the eyes of the hall turned to them. The castellan rushed over at a speed which belied his age. But not enough.
Lord Oliver raised the glass high in the air, and Renise may or may not have said something deeply unseemly.
Because the man proceeded to pour the priceless wine over his chin.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A strangled cry came from the corner of the hall. Elsewhere, a glass shattered against the stone floor. That was good. The carpet had been spared. Very, very good.
Lord Oliver looked up at his glass, evidently confused as to why he was not floating in the clouds as far as his taste buds were concerned. His narrowed eyes peered into the hollow where the liquid had been resting, before he offered the glass back to Renise.
“Lady Lenisha,” he said, his voice slurred as he stumbled backwards. “Your wine... it is of most excellent quality.”
Renise took the glass, checking it for a drop of amber. There was none. It was on the man's chin, his doublet, and the floor.
She had no doubt that even spilled, it was worth its weight in gold. And yet seeing it mixed among the food stains and the print of this man's muddy shoes, she decided that she would offer no challenge should a smuggler opt to salvage what they could.
Renise waited. They all did. The eyes of the crowd turned to the castellan as his hands shook against the hilt of his sword. Wine was wine. And yet this was anything but. The last memory of the Winter Queen, now watering a man's stubble.
The shock ran through Renise. And then anger. It flared inside her as she rose from her chair, and her hand stung as it slapped against the face of the fool. The sound bit into the air like the crack of a whip and Lord Oliver stumbled backwards, falling to the carpet. The damn carpet. At least hit the hard stone.
She was incensed. She was speechless. This disgrace of a nobleman, invited on no more than a charitable whim! Renise didn't care for the drunkenness, no matter how egregious it was. He'd squandered her father's treasure. A man who had never seen war had just flushed down the spoils of a man who saw too much of it.
Renise held onto the hard back of her chair. She wanted to strike him again. And she didn't know with what.
“Hahahahaha!”
And then came the laughter.
Boisterous and wild, it was the laughter of an adventurer in his youth, a captain in his prime and a father sparring with his daughter using far too sharpened swords in his greying years. It was laughter Renise recognised well, usually because it came at the most inappropriate of times.
And always without fail.
“You see, my fair friends?” called our the Smuggler King, his wide smile sweeping away the calls for Lord Oliver's life before they came. “We raise a glass to the fallen, but what joy do they feel when we drink in their honour? Do they also taste it, feeling the bliss of life and savouring the taste of triumph? No, I think not. They look and judge as we wallow in the hubris of our revelry.”
Renise's father raised his arms out, then allowed his glass to shatter against the floor. To everyone's shock, a remaining dribble of amber was allowed to seep into the stonework.
“My good friends, to respect those who we have lost, we must endure. For is it not true that the Thieves Guild still exists, hiding in the shadows of the deepest tunnels of our city? No, this war has ended. But the Thieves Guild has not. Their coin is spent, but their purpose is undiminished. Those that remain will use the very shadows against us. We do not deserve this night. Not while it now shelters our enemies. Lord Oliver is the worthiest of us all, and I begrudge him for not instilling this lesson to us earlier.”
He pointed at a young servant. The poor boy jumped at being directly addressed by the king. On the floor, Lord Oliver groaned, nursing the back of his head with one hand while another reached for a bottle of wine far away on the table.
“Water! And I'll have nothing else. Not until the deed is done. Come, join me in this new vow! You will need it. Great victories demands celebration, but the greatest has yet to arrive. For wine, you may find it in the Salty Mermaid, where warm words of victory will be offered long into the night. But here in my estate, I would wait until I am sure that no arrows will find me in my short hours of sleep.”
The servant scampered, his feet rushing for a jug of water, before he paused, fumbled and went back for an empty cup, too.
Renise smiled, holding her hands to her mouth to stop the laughter.
Her father, swearing a vow of abstinence? Just to rescue a drunkard from a mob of smugglers? It was just like him. The madness of it. How he was going to talk his way out of this one, she had no idea. Her mother would hold this promise to him for life. So would Renise. The moment he so much as sniffed at another glass of wine, she would pour it over his face just as Lord Oliver had.
He wouldn't last two days. It was going to be wonderful.
“......”
And as Renise thought that, she realised that something was very wrong.
No ... Not just something.
Everything.
An intuition drilled in her. Not by years of court. But by the hush of a dockside crowd as a street brute came to a brawl armed not with fists, but knives and broken bottles.
A chill ran up Renise's spine as she lowered her hands. Her smile had vanished. Because hers was the only one present. Only tightly pursed lips surrounded her, the secrets and scandals silenced.
This wasn't right. It was a tragic waste, true. The fae wine was invaluable. The insult to civility appalling. But this reaction... it was all wrong.
There was no recrimination for Lord Oliver spilling the fae wine. There was no cheering for the Smuggler King's latest round of bluster. There was no laughter for the servant struggling to fetch a cup of water.
There was only a deathly quiet.
And Renise knew something terrible was about to happen.
She blinked at the faces standing behind the tables, cups to their lips. A whisper. A murmur. But she could neither spy the words, nor the expressions. The fires in the hearth. They'd dimmed so low that the eyes were hidden from her, and yet the shadows still reached the figure standing alone in the centre of the hall.
The servant returned with a cup of water. He then gasped, dropping it to his feet as he scrambled away.
Renise's father had drawn his sword. But this time, there was no scything arc. No dazzling display. It was purposeful and slow, and he stabbed the point into the hard stone to an uplift of dust.
He then sighed, leaning against the hilt with both hands.
“Ah. Should have known. Bugger.”
The smile, too, had vanished from his lips. The words of friendship, the sounds of laughter, all of it became wind as empty as the coldness in his usually bright eyes. And Renise knew with a dreadful beating in her chest that it was already too late.
Too, too late.
