Continuation of the story Simple Business, set in the world of Zayathine.
“I am done with you, Marion! Don’t expect me to be here when you come back!”
They’d had the fight more than once. He loved her passionately, but they were both quick to anger and slow to cool off, and it had led to a lot of broken ceramics and hurt feelings over the years of their marriage.
So the fight oughtn’t have meant anything much. It hadn’t been over anything much; a disagreement about evening plans born out of some miscommunication. Typically, given an evening or two of fractious tempers, the whole mess would be forgotten entirely.
So why did he feel such an awful sense of finality from those last words she’d said?
Marion Dresner stood at the top of an old stone staircase in the courtyard of Castamere Keep. It was too damn cold to be doing this kind of work this morning, a thick layer of white frost having kissed the castle and much of the crowded, muddy courtyard.
But as he’d told his wife when he stormed out the door this morning, this was too important to miss.
He raised a gloved hand, clearing his throat loudly against the din of murmuring from the sixty-odd people gathered below him at the bottom of the stairs. It was a fairly impotent gesture, and quieted them not much at all, but at least some of them turned to look in his direction.
“Gentlemen! May I please have your attention!” His voice had more luck, cutting through the crisp air with a sharpness and confident authority. The crowd quieted, at last, to a few quiet murmurings.
“I realize it’s cold outside, however, I must announce a slight change in schedule,” he continued, raising a slip of rolled parchment in his hand as though to punctuate the statement. ”His Royal Highness, King Aethor, Protector of the Realm, Prime Minister of the Confederacy, Duke of Acero, came unexpectedly to the Keep last night, and will require full use of it.
“This morning’s auction, as such, will thus be moved from the royal ballroom to here in the courtyard. I will conduct things at a brisk pace, and with any luck, we will all be ready to retire for food and a warming brandy by lunchtime.”
Dissatisfaction was clear on the noblemen’s faces, but the news was met with a a glum sort of quiet. They might have raised protest had it been simply some brainchild of Marion’s: he was merely the house steward, after all, and not even noble himself.
But no one gainsaid King Aethor.
Giving a self-satisfied nod to no one in particular, Marion turned back to the heavy iron doors of the palace and gave a sharp knock. It took only a moment before they swung open, two sharply-dressed guardsmen with muskets slung over a shoulder holding them open. A long line of servants streamed out to share Marion’s walkway, bearing all manner of beautiful things: lavish paintings, some on canvasses so large they took two men to carry, gem-studded jewelry that shone in the morning sun carried on velvet pillows, and a number of other wonders.
The king had called for this auction nearly a season ago, hoping to use these treasures – taken from the recesses of the recently-opened vault of the old Iron Bank of Acero – to fund a new fleet of ships, or so the rumor went.
And the nobility, rich beyond reason in the boom time that had been the story of Castamere’s last decade, was more than eager to spend their money on more baubles with history enough to make a conversation piece. The lords and their representatives had come out in real force for the event, some traveling as much as 300 miles to make it.
“We shall begin the day with this beautiful piece of crystal,” Marion motioned with a hand, and a servant stepped forward, bearing a perfect crystal orb the size of a man’s fist, balanced carefully atop a velvet pillow. Clearly polished to a near-mirror sheen, it sparkled as the morning sun hit it. ”A special piece, this. It bears a small, harmless enchantment that renders it always warm to the touch. Dean Dyalov at the University has stated that it is, to his knowledge, one of a kind.
“So where shall we start the bidding? May I ask–”
Two men dropped from the sky into the courtyard, choking any thought of words from Marion’s mind with the shock of it. They had a rough look, with naked steel flashing in their hands. The first bore a long scar across his face, and…
“Wait, aren’t you–” Marion never finished the question, as the man stabbed him through the chest right there on the staircase while some sixty men watched below.
“Get the crystal,” the thief said. ”I’ll tend to the route out.”
As Marion lay there gasping on the cobbles, clutching pointlessly at the bloody ruin of his chest, he couldn’t help but wonder, absurdly, if his Annalise would have been there when he got home.