Ch 2: Help

Whenever I would travel with my husband I’d insist on at least a dozen servants. One chef, four handmaidens, a footman, a couchman, three strapping young butlers for me, and two beautiful maids to keep my husband distracted while I was with the butlers.

– Lady Arbessa in a letter to a friend

Once the will was done being read Solomon made his way to his chambers, handing his long black mourning coat to Edmure, his valet.

“Will you be taking a meal sir?”

He hadn’t eaten yet, as it was tradition to fast until the body was laid to rest, but after the reading of the will he was famished. He’d need to keep his energy up as he began to put things in motion.

“A plate of eggs with some of that orcish spice we aren’t supposed to have and a small steak.”

“Very good sir,” said Edmure with a bow.

Solomon nodded to him and pushed open the door to his room. His chambers in the estate consisted of his bedroom, a small library and study, a private garden, a small kitchen for his personal cook, and the quarters of several of his personal servants so that they could service him quickly when needed. His quarters were the smallest of any of his siblings, roughly half that of Bernice. He had been exiled to them from the age of four when he began his studies. He could still remember that first night in a bed that seemed so large it would swallow him up.

He was under no illusion that he was poorly off. Of the great houses, the Morrows were often ranked seventh or eighth of the thirteen, ranking being a pastime of all the nobility, lesser and greater. He had never gone hungry except as punishment, and he had already, at the age of just twenty, felt more fine fabrics and tasted a greater variety of foods than almost everyone else in the empire. He was keenly aware of his privilege. He was also keenly aware of his responsibility.

He walked over to the small wooden door at the far end of the room and pushed his way into his small private garden. The smell of gardenias and bloodflower wafted up toward him and he took a deep breath of it. The gardenias were an affectation of the gardener, and the bloodflower was his own choice. He liked the splash of red, and the bittersweet scent they gave off.

He sat on the stone bench that faced the statue in the center of the garden. It depicted a knight with a crown on his head reaching down to help a man wearing the clothes of a farmer to stand up. He remembered being very taken with the statue when he’d found it wandering the family’s main garden. It had been overgrown then, tucked away in a corner where no one had seen it in some time. He would’ve liked to bring it with him to Uncle Victor’s old Estate, but it was a pointless expense. He remembered asking his tutor what the statue had meant, what its purpose had been. He’d received a rap on the knuckles for the question and been sent to translate it himself.

The statue represented the idea that those with status in society are required to fulfill social obligations for those without status. In a broader sense it was the idea that nobles were meant to be the best of people. They should reach out and help those who were their social lessers and provide an example for them. Something about that had resonated with him. Maybe it was because of what he’d seen when he’d been creeping through the servant halls that day just before he’d gone to the garden and gotten lost enough to find the statue. He shook his head, forcing that thought from his mind.

“Will you be taking your meal in the garden, sir?” asked Edmure.

“Yes.”

Edmure nodded and handed him a plate piled high with spiced eggs with a perfectly cooked steak on the side. Solomon ate carefully, doing his best to take his time. He already knew what his next steps would be, he’d known them for months. He knew which servants he’d want to take with him, what items to pack, which letters to write and send to which carriers, porters, and vendors. He knew which merchants would be most interested in opening the old mine that had been closed down near Moonfallow, and which might be interested in beginning a logging operation along the edge of the Black Wood. He’d written none of this down, as if it had been found it would’ve been incredibly damning. Luckily his tutors had always emphasized the importance of a strong memory.

He finished his meal and walked out of his room to his study. The walls were filled with books of history, ancestry, mathematics, and philosophy. His brothers’ libraries were all filled with similar texts, though he doubted they’d read them as thoroughly as he had, if they’d read them at all. He pulled out a stack of parchment and one of the new ink pens from the capitol. His was a kind of metallic purple ink, his favorite color. He’d miss wearing it for the next several months, but the mourning protocols insisted on black for quite some time. His mother and sisters would be trapped in black for a full year except for during any weddings they attended.

Solomon began to pen each of his letters. First he made a list of staff and materials that he’d want moved to his new estate, pretending to make a few mistakes here and there that he would cross out. Then he penned letters to be sent to Moonfallow as well as those that would go to set up the move. Once he was done he sealed them with his signet ring and handed them off to Edmure and the list of requested servants he had taken by a maid directly to Chorde.

After that he began to assemble his personal effects. He didn’t have many, but there were a few small comforts he’d want with them.

He had some concerns about the state of Uncle Victor’s estate. It had been untouched for a few years, and it was quite possible it had fallen prey to looters and vagabonds in that time. Still, with the right people he should be able to turn it around quickly and begin to focus on his other plans.

After a few moments there was a knock on the door. As Edmure was handling the post, he answered it himself, finding Hans, a giant of a man with thick gray hair, his father’s former valet, standing there.

“The Lord of the manor has requested your presence.”

Solomon gave no indication of his surprise.

“Of course,” he moved to place on his dresscoat. “Lead the way, Hans.”

The man bowed, and they began their walk through the long halls of the estate. Solomon knew the way of course. He’d lived in the estate his entire life and only rarely left, but there were procedures to follow, and Chorde loved his procedures, just as their father had.

Chorde hadn’t yet taken up residence in the main quarters of the home, and wouldn’t until their mother had been moved out. His own quarters rivaled that of the kings of smaller countries though. The floors were covered in thickly woven rugs of wool in simple repeating patterns, the walls were decorated with tapestries depicting their families victories and defeats, an odd affectation that came from their founder. Every few feet was a piece of Orcish, or Elven art that had been taken during some conquest or another. Any single piece could’ve been sold to feed a small village for several months, or a serf village for years. Solomon kept his own decorations simple and elegant, though if he’d had the free rein his siblings had perhaps he’d’ve had more extravagant tastes as well.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He arrived at the door to his brother’s study. He could hear his niece and nephew laughing in another room. “A solid start for the next generation,” was what his father had said the day they were born. His brother had unsmilingly agreed with the sentiment.

Hans knocked twice on the door.

“Come in,” said Chorde from behind the door.

Hans pushed it open and Solomon stepped inside. It was as opulent as everything else, with book shelves on either side of the room that required ladders in order to reach the highest volumes. The desk at which Chorde sat was elfwood, a living wood that would actually heal itself if damaged. It was claimed that their ancestors’ souls were within them. The Empire of Drakthiss didn’t care. Ships that repaired themselves were worth the price of a few elven souls.

Chorde wrote at his desk and Solomon remained standing. Before his father’s passing he would’ve been able to sit at will, but now that Chorde was the head of the family the rules had shifted.

He finished what he was writing, and carefully placed down his pen. He pointed at the chair across from himself.

“Sit.”

Solomon obliged.

“I received your request for servants. I am afraid I must refuse nearly all of these requests.”

Solomon nodded calmly. He’d been certain to pick only laborers and servants that would mostly go unnoticed in the grand scheme of the house. Not the first best carpenter, but the third. Not the finest chef, but one of his apprentices.

“May I ask why?”

“Jude has requested them himself for assistance in setting mother up in the new estate and ensuring everything is to her liking.”

“And can I ask when he made his request? Was it before or after you received mine?”

“That’s immaterial.”

After then, Jude was being petty and getting in his way. The sky was blue and the sun was bright.

“I must also insist you trim the request from thirty to fifteen servants at most. I believe what you are asking goes beyond what is promised in the will.”

That sounded like a revision Chorde himself made. Not worth probing.

“I will submit a separate request. Are there any names I should avoid?”

“I will not know until I see them.”

Solomon nodded, standing. “Understood. I am hoping to leave within the week.”