Briardark, page 28
Bernger was quiet for a time, his emotions hard to read. When he did speak, it was to change their discussion entirely. He pointed at the coat and hat resting in Bruno’s lap. ‘What made you dig those old rags out?’
‘I’ll thank you not to call my uniform “old rags”,’ Bruno chided. He stood up and put the hat on his head, then smoothed out the coat and threw it over his shoulders.
‘You understand that’s never going to fit you,’ Bernger said.
Bruno frowned. ‘I just need to stuff myself into this coat for one night. That’s all I ask of it.’
A puzzled look came across Bernger’s face. ‘One night? What is this all about?’
Chuckling, Bruno walked over to the silver-ornamented table that stood near the entryway. He picked up the copper sheet that was resting there and held it out to his son. ‘An invitation,’ he said. ‘You and I have been invited to dinner at Castle Mhurghast by Count Wulfsige.’
Bernger’s bewilderment only increased as he looked over the message. ‘Why would the count invite us? We’re hardly of a station to warrant such notice.’
There was a wistful tone in Bruno’s voice when he answered. ‘That’s why I dug out the uniform. A long time ago, when I was a captain in the Freeguild, I was a friend of the count’s son, Hagen. I think he’s feeling nostalgic for old times. The count must be nearing ninety. He probably wants to see people who will remind him of happier times. Rekindle old memories.’
Bernger glanced down at his clothes. ‘If we’re visiting the count, I’ll have to get something suitable for the occasion. I don’t want to be mistaken for a servant.’
A bitter memory stirred at the back of Bruno’s mind. ‘I shouldn’t worry,’ he said. ‘To Count Wulfsige, there isn’t a soul in Ravensbach he regards as anything more than a servant.’
The steps of Baron Roald von Woernhoer echoed through the hall. A servant in white livery hurried behind the noble, wiping the marks of his boots from the marble floor. The hallway, with its limestone pillars and oak ceiling, was a display of opulence and wealth few in Ravensbach could match. Roald was fanatical about maintaining the immaculate condition of this extravagance. No one, even other nobles, was allowed to walk across the polished marble without first putting silk slippers on their feet. The lamps that hung from the ceiling were lit by elaborate devices of duardin manufacture rather than anything that might drop wax or exude smoke. The limestone pillars were coated in a special unguent, an alchemical sheen that prevented fingers from leaving a mark upon them. The doors that opened into the hallway were fashioned from cherrywood and pine, beech and alder, their latches and handles sculpted from lapis lazuli and pearl.
There could be no greater evidence of the excitement the message had raised in the baron than that he should forego every rule of his household and march through the hall with his boots on. His customarily stern visage was lit by an almost palpable eagerness. In a low whisper he muttered a single word to himself as he stalked down the hall.
‘Finally.’ Roald rolled the word over his tongue, savouring it like a choice delicacy. He clenched his fingers tight around the copper sheet, as though afraid it would vanish if he lost his grip on it. When his steps carried him to an elaborately carved cherrywood door, his eyes focused on the images of dragons and gods. Sigmar and Dracothion, repeated in different poses on each panel. He had paid a small fortune for that artistry, a gesture meant to impress Ravensbach’s lector. Well, it seemed he would no longer have to impress anybody in the city. Not any more.
‘Open it,’ Roald snapped at the servant who had followed him down the hall. The menial scrambled forwards and pushed the portal inwards. The baron quickly followed him, forcing the man to duck out of his master’s path.
The room within was richly appointed. Brightly coloured tapestries hung from the walls and rich rugs covered the floors. Sunlight streamed into the chamber from a window that ran the full height of the back wall, some twenty feet from the base to the ceiling. Couches and divans were arrayed around the room, alongside fine sculptures and little tables with bowls of fruit. Nearer to the wall were two chairs. Roald marched towards these and their occupants.
‘It has happened at last,’ he announced triumphantly. He waited for his audience to respond.
The chair to his right was occupied by a girl wearing a long white dress. Curly locks of blonde hair fell around her lace-covered shoulders. Her cherubic face brightened when she saw Roald, and she set down her knitting to devote her full attention to her father.
Seated in the other chair was a woman in her middle years. Her face was lean and aristocratic, in much the same mould as that of her husband. Baroness Hiltrude von Woernhoer was of the old blood, just as Roald was. Their families had been the first to bring civilisation to Ravensbach after the Stormcasts swept away the barbaric hordes of Chaos. The von Woernhoers were an old peerage and a proud name, so much so that Roald had surrendered his own title to adopt his wife’s.
Hiltrude’s current attitude was a reminder of that fact. She did not look up when Roald spoke, but just kept working at her knitting.
Roald waited. Normally he would wait as long as it took, but not today. Today he was going to demand Hiltrude’s interest. ‘Confound you,’ he barked. ‘This is important.’
‘Do not be so dramatic, Roald,’ the baroness countered. ‘Nothing you can say could be of the slightest importance.’
Roald pounced on her dismissive words like a hungry wolf. ‘Not important! Confound it, woman, put down that blasted knitting and listen!’ The irritation in his tone or the persistence of his intrusion finally made Hiltrude look up. The instant she did, he thrust the message in her face. He laughed victoriously as he watched shock and wonder play through her expression.
‘Is it something good, papa?’ the blonde-headed girl asked.
‘Better than good, Liebgarde,’ Roald boasted. ‘Better than your best dreams, little one.’
Hiltrude leaned back in her chair and pulled at one of her mahogany earrings. ‘Can this really be?’
‘You can see the count’s seal right there at the bottom!’ Roald stabbed his finger at the blob of wax and the impression of a castle surrounded by lightning.
‘What can it mean?’ Hiltrude wondered.
‘Mean? Mean? Why, it means that what I’ve worked towards all these years is finally going to be mine.’ Roald looked out of the window and watched the gardeners working in the luxurious flower beds. He despised flowers. Of all the extravagances he’d invested in, he found them the most insipid. But now he no longer resented what he’d spent on them, what he’d spent on anything. Because his name had spread throughout the great and powerful of Ravensbach. His position had grown in such stature that even Count Wulfsige had taken notice of him.
‘An invitation to dinner at Mhurghast,’ Roald said. ‘An invitation to all of us. We are to dine with the count as his guests tomorrow.’
‘But what does it mean?’ Hiltrude persisted.
A cold smile crawled across Roald’s patrician features. ‘Count Wulfsige is old, so old it is a wonder he isn’t a gheist. He has no family, no heirs to carry on his name or inherit his wealth.’ His eyes gleamed as he looked at his wife and daughter. ‘Don’t you see? The count needs an heir. That is why he is asking us to the castle. He wants to make me his heir.’
Hiltrude was more guarded in her estimate. ‘Why should he just give you what you have schemed and plotted to steal from him all these years? I know you think you are clever and hid your tracks, but maybe the count is even cleverer.’
Roald laughed at that. ‘Clever? Clever? The old fool never leaves that damn castle. He’s kept himself locked away in there for decades. Half of Ravensbach thinks he’s already dead and it is just his servants maintaining the illusion he’s alive so they don’t lose their jobs. Trust me, Hiltrude, he couldn’t be more oblivious if he was an ogor shopping for drapes.’
‘You are always so certain of yourself, aren’t you?’
‘When I set my mind to something, I get it,’ Roald told her. ‘Though sometimes it is not quite what I thought it would be,’ he added with a sneer.
‘This could be one of those times,’ Hiltrude warned. She directed his attention back to the invitation.
Roald read the sheet again. ‘You notice it is not made out to Baroness Hiltrude von Woernhoer, but to me,’ he said.
‘It is not made out to Baron Roald von Woernhoer either,’ Hiltrude said. This time it was her tone that had a ring of triumph to it.
Roald looked again. For an instant it escaped him, and then he finally understood what he’d glossed over in his reading of the invitation. It wasn’t made out to Baron Roald von Woernhoer and family. It was addressed to Baron Roald von Rodion, his name before marrying Hiltrude.
A name he had not used in twenty years.
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