(38) Fake Happiness

Two men sat swaddled in darkness, the overcast night failing to illuminate the room, filled with long, flickering shadows cast by the fire in the hearth. One man sat forward, with his elbows resting on his knees. The other lounged in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, arms spread wide along the back.

“People are already restless. We have squeezed tightly, yet we must squeeze tighter still?” the first man asked.

The man wrung his hands, despite resting his chin atop them.

“An order from the crown is difficult to ignore, no?” the second man replied, clearly unbothered.

“The crown did not order this,” the first man retorted.

“The crown ordered information—expensive information—and offered no funds with which to obtain it. Thus, we must do what we can,” the second man replied, shrugging.

The first man, running a hand across his forehead, glanced over at the second.

“You are not bothered at all?” he asked.

“As I said, we must do what we can. I’ve never known you to be the soft sort. The count must be such a kindly lord for his chamberlain to be so concerned with the small folk. Or, could it be that you are worried about tempting the Wraith?” the second man asked, chuckling.

“What, because of the Marquis’ son? Ha, there is no mystery there, no Wraith. I would have perished long before he on even half the…substance he used.

“No, I am worried about the pressure. One can only squeeze so hard before things start breaking,” the first man explained, staring into the fire.

Curiously, neither of them noticed the bright eyes shining like white-hot embers amidst the flames, watching.

——————————————

A couple stood in knee-deep grass, a husband and wife, clinging to each other. The man had a bald head, thoroughly tanned, with gray hair ringing it. He wore a loose canvas shirt, frayed at the edges. His wife had white hair in a tight bun, flyaways lining her face, which was as tanned as her husband’s, weathered by years under the sun.

Their faces were lit by the conflagration where their barn once stood. The fire had burned past its zenith, the flames now licking blackened wood and charcoal, the structure barely recognizable.

Farm animals lay slaughtered on the ground, their corpses mangled beyond recognition in a way the pyre could never match. The reeking smell of char and death filled the field, yet the couple did nothing more than watch the flames sputter. The man had his arm around his wife, hers around his waist.

Both wore inscrutable expressions, though not from any sort of diplomatic neutrality. These were the faces of people who lost everything, the faces of people watching their lives burn down.

Neither noticed two white eyes amid the tall grass, watching, calculating.

————————————

Two men dragged a wooden crate between them. It was beaten and battered, creaking as they walked. Drops of a foul liquid dripped from the lowest corner as the men carried it haphazardly toward a dark alley.

“Gods damn but they could’a chosen any other good to discuss the shit rather’n fish,” the man in the back spat.

“Shut yer fuckin’ mouth. We ain’t even there yet an’ yer already flappin’ yer gums like I’m a fuckin’ wench yer tryin’ to woo,” the man in the lead called back in a harsh whisper.

“What’re ya worried about? Anyone found out there’s dirt in here, heh, it’d be customers swarmin’, not the guards,” the second man chuckled.

Thud!

The front of the crate slammed into the cobblestone road, the sound echoing off the windowless walls of the buildings lining the alley.

“What the—” the second man started, setting his end down quickly.

The lead man stalked over to him, fists balled and hackles raised. He jammed a finger into the man’s chest.

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“Yer talkin’ too damn much. We’s grunts, understand? We don’ make the big money, but when the guard come down on us, we put our tails ‘tween our legs and say we ain’t know what we was movin’. We was jus’ followin’ orders. Tha’s our compensation, plausible deniabilly, understand?

“When ya come right out an’ say what we’re movin’, yer waiving that deniabilly, so the guard gon’ come down on ya hard. Now, tha’s yer choice to make, but don’ make the mistake a tryin’ to make that choice fer me, too. Yer stealin’ my compensation, if ya do, an’ I ain’t gonna take that lyin’ down, understand?

“So shut. The fuck. Up,” he finished, punctuating each word with a stab of his finger.