Title: My Fair Lord: a Story of Steel, Steam and Silk: Act Two Part: 2 of 3 Keywords: furry, mm, steam punk, culture clash, violence Universe: Shattered Tears Author: just_lurking Summary: Faolán and Nettle are together and happy, but their affair must remain a secret at all costs. The Beach Palace was a sunken tower, built into the cliff face of a secluded bay, on the southern coast of the island city Gleipnir. The architecturally unique mansion served simultaneously the Governor’s residence, the seat of the local government, and the Emperor’s palace. Its position and construction made it almost completely indefensible, and therefore, utterly useless as a military base, but as a luxurious, decadent retreat it excelled for precisely the same reasons. By far the most widely known feature of the Beach Palace were it’s pools. The pools were built high up on the beach under the cliff face. They were shallow, hexagonal affairs, with tiles around the edges and a floor of soft golden sand. A network of concrete paths and steps wound their way between them, connecting them in an intricate pattern. There were numerous potted plants dotted around the area to break up the hard lines, and provide a fresh fragrance for the bathers. It was the pump house—rather than the surroundings—that made the pools as popular as they were. Situated at the top of the cliff—far enough away that the sounds of the engine were not easily heard—the spokes of the large brass flywheel caught the sun as they turned—pumping hot, clean water into the pools in the bay beneath as they did so. The water cascaded down, overflowing from one pool to the next, following gravity. The gurgling and shimmering of the flowing liquid adding to the already relaxed atmosphere. Faolán sat, up to his belly, in the warm water of one of these shallow pools, his arm wrapped around the waist of Nettle who was smiling like a cheshire cat. It was a fine day, and the lords and ladies of the Imperial Court milled around. Faolán smiled and waved to a few of his favoured courtiers, but otherwise ignored the bustling crowd, and, in turn, was politely ignored by them. Nettle wore a short-sleeved, red-and-white-striped, woollen bathing suit, which complimented his pure white fur. Faolán thought the buck looked delicious in his stripes. Faolán was in a similar suit, but, as a concession to his burnt-graphite fur, his was blue-and-black. It had been a week since the Emperor—Faolán’s father—had decreed that the court would be relocated to the Beach Palace. Faolán had used the resulting confusion to explain away Nettle’s sudden appearance at the Beach Palace after he smuggled him in. So far no one suspected that Nettle, was in fact a waiter from a lower class neighbourhood and his boyfriend. They had been lounging in the pool, talking, laughing, splashing and just having fun for most of the morning now. “God! This is so relaxing Faolán.” Nettle purred, “Why didn’t you show me this sooner?” “I didn’t know you’d enjoy it so much.” Faolán said in amusement, “I would’ve if I had.” “I want to do this every morning.” Nettle sighed. “You can’t. You forgot the Court Ball tomorrow.” Faolán said, “Eight till eight. There won’t be enough time for a dip.” “Awww, I don’t wanna go”, Nettle said with fake petulance. “Oh, the hardships of being a noble.” Faolán mocked, “Having to constantly attend parties.” “Stoppit you.” Nettle laughed, “I’m going back to bed if you’re going to be like that.” “That sounds like a good idea to me.” Faolán joked back. Nettle leaned closer to whisper in Faolán’s ear, “Join me in five minutes, and I’ll show you just what a good idea it is.” “Oh, I will.” Faolán promised as his lover climbed out of the water. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tristram met Faolán at the top of steps of the southern foyer. He had in his hands a brush, a thick soft towel and some papers. He handed the towel to Faolán who began towelling off as he made his way deeper into the palace. Tristram followed a respectful one step behind his master, “Sir, That’s the last of Nettle’s papers. According to all records Nettle is now a member of the Rabbit Royal Family, two-hundred-and-twenty-seventh in line for the throne, visiting the Wolven empire for the first time with their ambassador.” “Good.” Faolán said, “Very good, and you’re certain the forgery won’t be discovered?” Tristram looked nervous, “I picked the very best forger we have. The same one your father uses when the occasion warrants.” “I’m sure that he must be good if my sire uses him” Faolán agreed. “Sir…” Tristram said uncertainly, “I’m sure the forgery won’t be discovered, but…what if someone familiar with the Rabbit Royal Family notices Nettle?” “That’s not likely to happen, the Rabbit King has five wives and thirty children of his own, his brothers are only slightly less promiscuous.” Faolán dismissed, “No wolf will know that Nettle isn’t really heir number two-hundred-and-twenty-seven.” “But what about the Rabbit Ambassador?” Tristram asked, “He’ll know.” “I’m just going to have to keep Nettle away from him.” Faolán said, “As far as he’s concerned Nettle is just an ordinary rabbit, completely independent of his affairs. If the ambassador asks we’ll pass him off as a silk trader.” “But sir, what if someone asks him about ‘Prince Nettle’, he would…” Tristram asked again getting agitated. “Tristram are you questioning me?” Faolán asked sharply, wanting to remind his servant that, despite his favoured position, he was not to take too many liberties. Tristram looked suitably chastised, “No sir.” He attempted to reason with his master in a more subdued tone, “I am simply concerned for your well being. If something goes wrong with your plan…” “Thank you, Tristram.” Faolán cut off his valet, “Your devotion to me is touching,” He said honestly, “but trust me. Nothing will go wrong. I won’t let it.” “Yes sir.” Tristram said, fighting to keep the doubt out of his voice. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Faolán and Nettle did little of consequence for the remainder of the day, and—like the infatuated teens they were—they enjoyed every second of it. Nettle awoke the next morning, wrapped in both his lover’s embrace and bedsheets. He was contented. Outside the dawn sun was just breaking. Setting the clouds, sitting on the horizon, on fire. They blazed golden and red and ash-grey above the dancing sea. The northward-winds broke over the roof of the Beach Palace—quieting the noise of the surf and the seagulls to a soothing murmur in the background. Tristram chose that moment to quietly enter the room. “Good morning, my lord.” He said upon seeing Nettle was awake, “It’s half past six, the ball will be in an hour and a half. The staff have breakfast prepared, it can be served at your convenience.” “Thank you Tristram.” Nettle smiled warmly, he had taken an instant liking to Faolán’s valet and confidant, “I’ll wake Faolán and we’ll be though momentarily.” “Very good, sir.” Tristram said as he bowed out of the room with a smile on his face. Despite Tristram’s worries about his master’s plans, he had to admit that the rabbit was a good match for the prince. Plus having Nettle around, made his job easier. Faolán was never a ‘morning’ furson. Tristram had spent many a morning trying to persuade a bad-tempered lump of fur-and-blankets (who also happened to have the power to imprison anyone he wished in a heart beat) that he had duties to attend to, and that he therefore needed to get up. Fortunately that was now Nettle’s job, and he seemed to be much more successful at it than Tristram. Nettle buried his head into Faolán embrace—nuzzling his cheek and tickling his ear. “Fao…Fao” He whispered, “Time to get up Faolán.” Faolán’s ear twitched at the tickling. He shifted slightly and opened his eyes blearily. “Urgh…” Faolán let out a groan, “Whut time ’zit?” “Half past six, time to get up.” Nettle answered. Faolán groaned again, “Just another ten minutes.” He tried to roll over, but Nettle took him by his shoulders and pulled him into a kiss. Wolven morning breath is some of the worst of any species, but Nettle didn’t care—the kiss was long and passionate. “Awake now?” Nettle asked after breaking the kiss. “Uh, maybe?” Faolán said, “Perhaps after another?” “Come on you.” Nettle gently chastised, “Get up. Breakfast is waiting.” They got up and ate an very pleasant and unhurried breakfast together, after which they washed up, and allowed Tristram to dress them. It was ten to eight when they left Faolán’s apartments and descended to the ball room. The room was empty apart from the Emperor, the governor and the catering staff. The latter were busy making last moment preparations before the guests arrived. The former two were deep in convert conversation, doubtless about the security ‘situation’. The Emperor had become obsessed with locating the ‘leak’. Despite his very best efforts to make a clandestine trip to Gleipnir someone had out-witted him, and the ruler of the iron empire was not a wolf who liked being out-witted. The ball, lavish and cheerful as it was, was a slap in his face. It was an admission—albeit only to those who were aware of his original plans—that the foxes had out-manoeuvred him. The sting of the humiliation made him angry, and an angry Conall Lyall was a very dangerous thing indeed. Still, Faolán felt he had nothing to fear, his sire’s anger was not directed at him, and they were trying to maintain the pretence that nothing was out of the ordinary. So he approached his sire to greet him as he would under any other circumstances. “Sire, is everything ready?” Faolán asked. “Ah, son.” Conall said looking up, “It is. The other guests should be down momentarily.” He looked over at Nettle expectantly. Nettle shivered under his gaze, he was more than a little intimidated by the large wolf. He jumped as he realised that the Emperor was waiting for him to speak—etiquette demanded that, being of lesser rank, Nettle would greet the Emperor first. The reverse situation, Conall acknowledging Nettle first, was unthinkable. Nettle realised that he had made a faux pas by delaying, he hoped that the Emperor wouldn’t take it personally. “Y-Your I-Im-Imperial Majesty,” He stuttered, “Y-You have s-such a nice p-p-palace.” He felt like an idiot. “Thank you, Prince…Nettle was it?” The Emperor replied, somewhat condescendingly, “I do have a nice palace.” Nettle had no idea how to reply to that, and he would have stood there, wide-eyed and gulping air like a goldfish, if they hadn’t been interrupted by the arrival of the other guests. They were mostly wolves, but there were two or three dozen cats, rabbits and foxes dotted among them. It was an official occasion, and they were all dressed in their best clothes. Those with uniforms wore them. Others wore sashes and medals designating their position. Faolán immediately spotted the Imperial Engineers in the middle of the throng. Their midnight-blue, gold-trimmed great-coats made them stand out. Despite only being seven members strong they were a diverse group. Old hands at the coal furnace walked along side youthful trail blazers such as Llou. Tall and short, fat and thin, outspoken and reserved, there was only one thing which all seven had in common: they were all the empire’s very best in their respective fields. They were talking as they walked, doubtless about some esoteric matter of engineering of importance to the empire. Faolán was interrupted from his reverie by a quiet-but-strong voice from behind him. “Emperor Lyall,” It said, “May I join you?” It was not the correct form of address, Faolán could feel his hackles rise at the impertinence. He looked for the source of the offending remark. Behind him stood a vixen in the sand-yellow cap, coat and trousers that were the uniform of the Foxen Coalition Army. “General Kaie.” The Emperor said with incredible restraint, “How are you?” Faolán knew General Kaie—everyone did—if only by reputation. After the President, she was the absolute head of both branches of the foxen military. She was tall, thin, well-groomed, and presented an easy-going, jovial façade. A façade which could beguile those who didn’t know of the ruthless, merciless way she waged war against the Coalition’s enemies. She wore a sea of medals, all of which commemorated only a handful of her achievements on the battlefield. She was flanked by two beefy foxen body guards, in similar uniform but of lesser rank. “I am on top of the world, Your Majesty.” She said, goaded him over his recent defeat, “Everything seems to have been going my way recently.” “I’m sure you must feel quite happy.” The Emperor replied, “I would enjoy it while it lasts. Such…fortune rarely holds out for long.” “Oh, no Your Majesty,” the General smiled, “I have a feeling my ‘luck’ will hold out a good while yet.” The Emperor was about to retort to that, but Faolán beat him to the punch. “Sire, ma’am, please excuse us. I’ve just spotted Lord Lycaon—I would like a word with him.” Faolán lied. The two adversaries barely acknowledged, Faolán and Nettle’s departure, before returning to trading jabs. Faolán walked over to the septet of engineers. They were engaged in what seemed to be quite a heated debate, although none of the engineers were unprofessional enough to so much as raise their voice, let alone interrupt each other, there was a rapid exchange of, obviously dissenting, opinions between them. They broke off their conversation as he approached. As the head of the Imperial Engineers, it fell to Llou Lycaon to make the introductions required by tradition and polite society. “Prince Faolán…” He said before seeing Nettle and stalling. “This is Prince Nettle.” Faolán supplied. “Prince Nettle?” Llou, who was very well versed in politics, managed to turn his surprised exclamation into a greeting at the last moment. “How may we be of service to Your Majesties?” “By keeping us safely away from General Kaie.” Faolán laughed. “Oh, ho!” One of the engineers, a short, stout old wolf, belly laughed, “The general is rubbing it in is she?” “Just a bit.” Faolán confirmed. “I shouldn’t laugh…” The tubby engineer tried to regain his composure. “No. You shouldn’t”, Llou muttered, disapprovingly, under his breath. “…but it’s a very small matter.” He said dismissively, “We’ll pay her back with interest.” “I don’t understand.” Nettle said, “Why are they…squabbling?” “The foxes managed to put one over on us last week.” Faolán explained, “General Kaie is revelling in her victory.” “Put one over you?” Nettle’s brow creased, “How?” Nettle’s indiscretion drew winces from all the wolves. “Please don’t ask that, it’s a state secret you understand.” Faolán said softly. “Oh.” Nettle said, chagrined, “But you’re at peace with the foxes…”, he hesitated before asking the question which had just occurred to him, “Aren’t you?” “Huh!” The stout wolf snorted, “Peace, that’s one word for it.” “You have to understand,” Faolán began, “both the Empire and the Coalition are expanding…” Faolán trailed off, unsure of how to explain the complex politics to the naïve buck. “Progress demands it,” Llou interjected, “our ships can take us further and faster than ever. At the same time we now have a population large enough to promote emigration and still sustain an industrial base at home. Trips which were infeasible only a decade ago are now perfectly possible.” Another engineer picked up where Llou left off, “Lands which no one could hold due to distance. Are now perfectly defensible.” “Lands which are rich with resources, with strategic value. It’s a scrabble to see who can take, and hold, the most desirable bounty.” Faolán finished for him. “The ones who secure the lands, the routes, the resources, will have all the power,” Llou explained, “the ones who don’t…well, there are no prizes for runners up. The foxes are no fools,” He continued, “they understand this as well as we do. That’s why they’ve formed the Coalition. Before that there were hundreds of little foxen kingdoms. Individually they were weak. If they wanted to survive in this changed world then they had to unite and work together.” “Last month the Province of Waves became the one hundredth and thirty third member of the Coalition.” The tubby engineer said, “That’s pretty much the last of the fox kingdoms. The only hold outs are Towan and a half a dozen or so of the same ilk.” “Towan VI?” Nettle asked, “Towan the Quick-Witted? Isn’t she mad?” “As a hatter.” The rotund dog replied, “She’ll never join the Coalition. For all practical intents and purposes the foxes are now united. The competition begins in earnest. May the Creator have mercy on us all.” “So you see.” Faolán said sadly, “We’re not at war, but neither are we at peace.” “We cannot allow the foxes to take the treasures out there uncontested.” Llou said decisively, “It would be remiss of us to do so. It would lead to the inevitable marginalisation decline and demise of the Wolven Empire. At the same time the foxes cannot allow us to expand uncontested for exactly the same reason. Neither side can back down. A stalemate, in other words.” “Wow.” Nettle breathed, “I had no idea things were that bad.” General Kaie watched Nettle with interest. “Your Majesty, who is that buck?” She asked. “Huh! Him?” He said, not bothering to hide his disdain, “Prince Nettle. A minor royal from the rabbit lands. No one of any importance.” “Nettle…” Kaie mused, “He seems a little out of his depth, don’t you think? I’m no expert on rabbit politics, but I’ve never heard of a ‘Prince Nettle’ before.” The Emperor’s jaw locked, and his grip on his drink tightened noticeably. “He’s one of yours.” Conall made it a statement, not a question. “Of course not.” General Kaie replied taken aback by the sudden, unexpected change in the Emperor’s body language, “That is to say, we don’t have any…informants in your territories, Your Majesty. The Coalition and the Empire are at peace.” “Of course.” The Emperor agreed, in a tone of voice which said he didn’t believe that for a second. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nettle changed back into his ‘street’ clothes before slipping out of the palace. Dusk was just settling as he rounded the corner of Casking Street. He rushed across the busy road to Ginger’s Restaurant—his ‘home’ There was still enough light that the paper lanterns hadn’t yet been lit, but Nettle knew that wouldn’t be the case for long. Soon the lamps would be lit to chase away the gloom, and to welcome patrons in from the cold night. As he entered the restaurant he spied a gangly, thirty-something, lop-eared buck with a thin face and broken grey-white fur, serving a pair of customers. Nettle gave a squeal and launched himself, arms spread, face first, at the rabbit. Caught off guard, the older buck had only a split-second to prepare before the force of Nettle’s impact sent them tottering backwards. “Rooliti!” The startled rabbit exclaimed joyfully, “Sarli mi laynt etheth nahl asith i!” “Father, I missed you too!” Nettle cried, burying his face his father’s apron and hugging him tighter. “We know you have family Cinnamon.” One of the rabbits sitting at the table laughed raucously, “You don’t need to flaunt your boy to prove it.” “Ha! You wish you had a son like mine Bramble.” Cinnamon said as he clasped Nettle by the shoulders. Nettle bushed at the attention. “Perhaps one day, but not yet.” The rabbit replied, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “Ignore Bramble. He’s jealous because he hasn’t settled with a doe and started a family yet.” The second rabbit ribbed his companion good naturedly, “Your son does you proud, Cinnamon.” Family was a central—perhaps the central—concept of Rabbit society, and a lot of leeway was given for ‘family affairs’, so Bramble and his companion didn’t mind waiting for Cinnamon and Nettle to have their reunion—at least, so long as they weren’t waiting too long. Cinnamon led Nettle to a quite spot in the restaurant, where they could chat briefly. “Is your wolf treating you well?” He asked as they sat down. Although Cinnamon was perfectly intelligible, he was not as fluent in Wolven as Nettle was. Unlike his son—who was truly bilingual—Cinnamon thought in Rabbit and then tried to translate his thoughts to Wolven. His speech was, as a result, littered with the matter-of-fact statements and short imperative sentences which were characteristic of his native tongue. “Yes,” Nettle reassured him, “but I wanted to be with my family for a while. You and mother and Lemon and Ginger and everyone else” “Your mother is out and I wouldn’t talk with Ginger, at the moment.” Cinnamon said, “He is angry.” Nettle cocked his head in curiosity, “Angry?” “Hoi. Very angry.” Cinnamon assured him, “He has no help. First you go missing, then Lemon disappears.” “O? Yao laya?” Nettle inquired after his cousin. Cinnamon laughed and tussled his son’s head fur, “Watching boats down at the docks again.” “I’ll go see him.” Nettle said impulsively, “Give mother my love.” “I will. Frithaes rooliti!” Cinnamon called after his departing son. “Frithaes parli!” Nettle called back as he crossed the threshold of the restaurant. It was only a short distance from Rabbit Town to the docks, which was not surprising considering that most of the rabbits had some connection to them or the boats in them. Nettle made the journey at a running jog, and he was at the gates of the civilian side in hardly any time at all. He found Lemon in his ‘spot’ overlooking the berths. In many ways, despite his reckless and impulsive nature, Lemon was a creature of habit. Not only did he always choose the same railings, five foot up the same scaffolding at the top of the hill, to watch the ships coming and going, but Nettle could tell his mood by the way Lemon composed himself on them. If he was sitting on the railings he was happy. Leaning on them meant he was deep in thought (Nettle feared this posture more than any other). If he was slumped over them he was sad. Currently, he was gripping the railings with one paw, and he had one of his booted feet on the edge of the scaffold, the rest of his body was hanging in the open air. He was staring out to sea and waiving his free arm excitedly. That meant that there was a ship at sea, and that Lemon was very happy to see it. “Hey, cuz!” Nettle said as he ran up, “What ship is that?” “Nettle.” Lemon said as he looked round, “What’s a fine upstanding prince like yourself you doing hanging around a rough, common, place like this?” “I came to see you.” Nettle replied, “What are you doing hanging around here?” He said referring to Lemon’s suspended state. “Not falling!” Lemon laughed at his own bad joke, “That’s Captain Rose’s ship out there.” He clarified afterwards, “It’s been five months, he’s right on schedule.” “Captain Rose? He’s back?” Nettle asked. “Yep.” Lemon confirmed. He shielded his eyes with his free paw and squinted, “It looks like they’re guiding them into berth three, lets go.” The pair raced down the hill to the docks proper. There they mingled with a small crowd of well-wishers waiting to greet the ship as it arrived. Captain Rose was one of many captains the pair had befriended. He was a rabbit trader dealing in silks, spices and other profitable cargo from the mainland to the east of the Tears. He also ferried fursons to and from the rabbit lands. In fact, it was Captain Rose’s ship that Nettle and his family had served on on his way to Gleipnir seven years ago. The captain also brought news from home, and even letters and parcels on occasion. The ship thrashed the water as it came into the docks. Captain Rose’s ship was a large wooden paddle steamer, built to haul as much cargo as was physically possible. It had three large paddle wheels, one at the back, two either side. A smoke stack, near the back of the boat, equidistant from the three paddles, betrayed the location of the steam engine. Nettle and Lemon looked up as the immense hull drifted past them. There, standing, on the dock-side top-deck, was Captain Rose. He waved to the crowd as he passed. Like all merchants he enjoyed a certain celebrity. Captaining a merchant vessel was a risky—but well compensated—business. A ship’s fortune could change with only a moment’s notice, they could be wrecked, raided or even just lost, and there would be no help all alone at sea. As a result most merchant captains tended to be daredevils, who lived for the moment, and spent their lavish earnings freely. After all, any money in your pocket when you died was a good time you didn’t have while you were alive. Captain Rose certainly played up to his swashbuckling image. He was dressed in the archaic fashion of a sailor from almost a century earlier: a double breasted frock coat, a shirt with a white lace collar, and a tricorne hat. The ship was quickly secured and the gangway extended. Captain Rose disembarked. He didn’t have a chance to speak before he was swamped by a dozen eager rabbits all asking questions. How are things back home? What stories of your travels do you have? Did grandmother send a message? Is the consignment of tea okay? Were there sea monsters? Is grandmother still alive? How long are you planning on staying? She lives in Anisth village, that’s still on your route right? How about the preserved fruit, is it all right? How about pirates, or are they still scared of ya, huh? Captain Rose tried to answer each question as best he could, but there were so many, and eventually he had to throw his arms up to drive the mobbing rabbits back a bit. “Eth neorsé, vahral! Let me catch my breath!” He exclaimed. They all piped down. Except for one buck who opened his mouth to ask another question. “Yes, Lavender.” Captain Rose said, pre-empting the question, “All your wares are fine.” There was laughter, “Tell me friends, what’s news here?” The chorus of voices started up again, filling Captain Rose on the doings of the previous five months in Gleipnir. At one point Lemon, uncontrolled and overexcited as usual, shouted out “Nettle has a boyfriend.” “Lemon! Nettle! Good to see you again.” Captain Rose cried out, “Is that true Nettle? Have you found someone?” Nettle could only nod dumbly. “Still got that shyness, eh?” He asked, “Never mind you’ll conquer it some day. Good on you. I hope you’re both very happy.” “We are.” Nettle replied. “Lemon, does your father still have that restaurant?” The captain asked, “I believe he still owes me a meal from last time.” “He probably believes different.” Lemon replied. “Well I feel hungry. Let’s go remind him.” The captain said as he set off towards town, “I’ll tell you all about my adventures over the last five months.” There was a cheer (and one or two good-natured groans) from the assembled rabbits (the cubs especially, were eager for more of Captain Rose’s tales of action and adventure) as the set off. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Nettle wobbled up the steps to Faolán’s apartments. Two parties in one day, had not done his equilibrium any good. His spirits, on the hand, were soaring (as was his blood alcohol level). He had spent a pleasurable morning with Faolán at the ball. He had planned to spend a quiet, pleasant, evening visiting his family. Instead had spent a uproariously enjoyable evening with them, listening to Captain Rose’s improbable tales of derring-do. Now he was walking up the stairs to be with the wolf who loved him with all his heart, and who he, in turn, loved unconditionally. As far as Nettle was concerned, life couldn’t get any better. He was feeling extremely light headed, and euphoric as he stumbled through the door which lead to the anti-chamber of Faolán’s room. Only Tristram, startled by Nettle’s sudden appearance, was present. “Oy.” Tristram breathed, on seeing Nettle’s condition, “Come on, sir let’s get you to bed.” Setting down the duster he was holding, he put Nettle’s arm over his shoulder and helped the inebriated buck into the bedroom. He set Nettle down on the bed, where he flopped unceremoniously on his back unceremoniously. Tristram pull off Nettle’s boots and arranged him in a more comfortable looking position. “Okay, Nettle. You just rest, I’ll bring you a glass of water.” Tristram said. “’anks Triz.” Nettle slurred, “’preciate ’t.” Tristram set down the glass of water on the bedside table. “Iz ’Lan here?” Nettle asked. “No,” Tristram replied, “He had an appointment to meet a priest.” Nettle oh-ed at that then was silent. An indeterminate amount of time passed. Then Nettle heard a noise in the next room. He twitched an ear. “Fa’lan?” He asked no one in particular. Through bleary eyes Nettle could see that Tristram was still in the room—he looked concerned. Suddenly the doors to the bedroom where kicked open. Half a dozen of the palace guard piled in to the room. Nettle shot up in alarm. “Hold on a minute…” Tristram said as he interposed himself between the soldiers and Nettle. “You can’t just burst in here. This is—” Tristram never completed the sentence. The guard nearest him, drew his sabre, and, without even slowing his approach, swung it at the hapless valet. The blade cut through the air in a smooth, practised arc. Tristram’s head was severed from his body just below the jaw line—his eyes still open, muzzle still forming the syllable that had died on his lips. It rolled a couple of feet before coming to a stop. His body just crumpled where it stood. Faolán’s valet, his most trusted servant, confidant and friend, the loyal wolf who had been at his side for years, was dead. There was blood everywhere. Nettle screamed. He wailed like a banshee, and he continued to do so until one of the soldiers walk up behind him and whacked him round the head—rendering him unconscious.