Sexy Steampunk Babes: Chapter Seventy Two

The Grand Ballroom of Summerfield Manse was a riot of colour and sound to William’s senses. Intricate tapestries lined the walls. Gleaming chandeliers hung overhead. Marble pillars broke up the floor. And above the ongoing constant hum of conversation, the bombastic music of Wagner continued to play from a gramophone near the wall.

He’d been more than a little amused to see that last item.

Though not so much that he’d been distracted from his main goal of the evening – that being casing the many gathered Southern nobles for supporters and obstacles to the twins’ ascension to the Ducal title.

Of course, it wasn’t just the Countesses of Summerfield present, but also those of Southshore as well – all here to reaffirm their fealty to Yelena with the outbreak of the civil war.

To that end, Yelena was sitting at the head table, a perch that saw her elevated higher than everyone else, despite her seated position. Her daughter and heir, the Princess Palmer, sat to her right, while the Duchess of Southshore had managed to claim the spot to her left. Beyond that, Admiral Tyana and the temporary Summerfield regent had a spot at the ‘big kids table’.

A small army of Palace Guards, Summerfield Guards, and Royal Marines made up the backdrop to the whole thing – while an equally large army of courtiers and sycophants schmoozed through the general area in front of the massive table, hoping to catch the eye of their sovereign so that they might plead their case in some dispute or another.

Perhaps William might have been amongst them in different circumstances – if only to get an idea of the leanings of the interim regent for the Summerfield Duchy.

Fortunately, he’d been assured that the woman was very much a non-factor in the succession process. The unlanded mage-knight who had been a teammate of the late Duchess Summerfield during their Academy days had remained a steadfast part of her retinue thereafter. Her only role was literally just to fill the seat in the interim until a new successor could be chosen from amongst the claimants.

Perhaps she might have had more unofficial say in the process without the Crown being present, but Yelena’s involvement rather nipped that in the bud.

Which is why I should probably get back to focusing on what I’m supposed to be here to do, he thought as he turned his attention back to the Countess he’d been speaking with.

Fortunately, it seemed the elven woman hadn’t noticed his wandering focus as he finished his speech. “…and finally, once more I do apologize for any insult I might have given while in the throes of teenage rebellion. I wasn’t thankful for it at the time, but the last year at the Academy has put a lot of things in perspective for me – sufficiently so that I now find myself mortified by my past behaviour.”

The Countess he was speaking to tilted her head, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “Ah, I never thought I’d see the day; the hellion of House Ashfield apologizing for his razor tongue. Think nothing of it lad. I can well recall my own turbulent youth and how my time at the Academy helped to straighten it out. A little unusual for a lad to attend, but it’s clearly worked out for the best for you.”

Perhaps if he were a more optimistic soul, he’d think the woman across from him was referring to his inventions and accomplishments – or even the fact that he’d managed to become a Count in his own right during his time at the Academy.

As it was, he knew she was referring to the fact that he’d finally been ‘tamed’ by the two women on his arms. Still, annoying as it was, he was quite happy for the twins to play up the part as they clung to him. Though he could sense just a little incredulity from Marline behind him.

And as happy as he was to reunite with her, he somewhat wished she’d also wander off to mingle like the rest of the team had. Bonnlyn certainly seemed to be having fun as she talked business with the small collection of nobles gathered about her. Olzenya was likewise preening as she fielded questions on the Jellyfish.

The only person who wasn’t present was Verity, who’d – perhaps smartly – begged off attending the party in favor of spending time with her family.

She chuckled, tone turning conspiratorial as she leaned in. “Tell me, do they still make you do your own laundry? I remember scrubbing linens until my hands were raw until I figured out that we were supposed to use the soap powder.”

“I’m afraid they do,” Clarice interjected, her formal gown of deep white – the colour of her house – rustling with the movement.

Her twin was wearing a matching ensemble, despite how the pair usually preferred to differentiate themselves from each other. In this case, it was supposed to be a show of solidarity between the two – even though Clarice was laying claim to the Duchy title despite the fact that Marcille technically had an equal claim to it.

Families had fractured over lesser divisions, after all.

Likewise, William’s own suit was predominantly white to represent their upcoming union, with only small tufts of red and blue to represent his own house’s colours.

The Countess nodded sympathetically. “Well, I’m glad for the lessons I learned there, but I can say I’m equally glad to have seen the back of it.”

William resisted the urge to scoff at that, because whatever lessons she might have learned, she clearly hadn’t retained the one about ‘the art of war being of vital importance to the state,’ given that her house’s airship was still entirely made of wood.

Of course, even as he had that thought, he knew it wasn’t entirely fair to the woman opposite him.

Because he’d recently learned that a decent chunk of the blame for the South’s relative weakness lay with the Crown itself – though not Yelena specifically.

Instead, the issue could be traced back to Lindholm’s founder, the once Governor-Admiral Lindholm who’d controlled the ‘colony’ during the fall of the Elven Imperium. And annoyingly, he couldn’t even chastise them too harshly for the choices they’d made.

They’d been expedient at the time after all.

Facing a balkanizing Empire, she’d chosen to instead try for independence rather than be sucked into the growing civil war between the Solites and Lunites.

In order to succeed though, she’d needed to unify the Elven colonies and indigenous Humans in her new ‘nation’. Which meant certain concessions had been made – which, while expedient at the time, had given rise to the viability of the current rebellion.

The first and most damning of such concessions was a subsidy system by which the farmland-poor Northern Marcher Houses could buy Capitol-made airship hulls, armaments and foodstuffs at a discount. Secondly, conflict against the – at the time still quite powerful Orcish clans – could serve as a form of corvée labour.

At the time, the Queen had likely thought such a concession a steal for getting the veteran houses on board with her rebellion – and more importantly, keeping them from acting as a beachhead for a mainland invasion force.

And the system had worked, right up until trade re-opened with the now more or less stable Lunite and Solite nations. Suddenly, the once poor Northern houses found themselves fabulously wealthy as new markets opened, eager for the one thing they had an excess of – Orcish slave labour.

And despite the growing threat the two houses now represented to the Crown, attempting to change or repeal the subsidies would be as close to political suicide for the ruling family as a politician trying to change the Bill of Rights would have been back in the US on Earth.

So instead, Yelena had opted for a flanking maneuver; curtailing the relatively new slave trade instead.

…And we all know how that’s going, he thought.

Because unfortunately, the relative lack of power in the South looped right back around to those subsidies. Any time a new steel hull rolled out of the capitol’s ship yards in the last few hundred years, it had either been funneled straight into the Royal Navy or snapped up at bargain rates by Northern buyers.

At which point, the Northerners would sell their old wooden hulls southward.

So not only do our opponents have better ships than us, they also know the specifications of our own ships in pretty exacting detail, he thought.

Perhaps the whole situation could have been mitigated if one of the Southern Duchies had invested in their own steel production yards, bypassing the capitol’s monopoly.

But why bother? Until mere weeks ago, the arrangement had chugged along adequately. Resources flowed into the capitol and finished products rolled out. And while he didn’t doubt the North’s subsidies had been an annoyance, that was all they’d been.

Not an existential threat.

And Yelena, for all that she’d seen all this coming, could only make politely phrased suggestions on what her Southern vassals invested in – hence Princess Palmer’s near constant presence in the South.

“Though from what I hear,” the Countess continued, once more drawing him back to their rather droll conversation. Alas, duty compelled him to listen. “Your time at the Academy hasn’t been entirely bereft of ‘rebellion.’ Challenging your fiancée to a duel? I dare say that story made the rounds down here quite vigorously. Even moreso than your heroic actions in that ‘pirate attack’.” She paused, her tone turning slightly wary.  “And then finally this… exploding airship business.”

She eyed him, as if expecting him to deny his part in the whole affair.

“Oh, there’s no need to seem so scandalized,” he laughed. “Yes, I was the one behind the destruction of a refurbished ‘undership’. An act that I’d like to remind you allowed our brave Royal Navy to successfully retreat from the capitol unmolested, while giving those traitors a black eye in the process.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true. Still, to destroy an airship…”

This time Clarice spoke up. “You make it sound like it’s never happened before, Countess Fringilla. It’s a war. As tragic as it is, airships tend to get destroyed. What makes this one so different? Had it been a battle, one airship for crippling an entire fleet would be considered an excellent engagement.”

“Because that ship would be destroyed by the actions of an enemy, dear,” the woman said slowly. “Not one’s own hand. It’s just… a little hard to conceive of a noble doing such a thing.”

“Once upon a time the thought of shaving down a mithril core to create the first Shard cores was considered outlandish,” Marcille said.

“I… that’s… different.”

“How so? If anything, I’d say my method is less destructive. As you know, once shaved down into shards, a core cannot be reconstituted. By contrast, I utterly destroyed the hull wood of the Trojan Horse such that it would be impossible to recover, but the mithril core of the ship was left whole. And I ensured it was extracted prior to the ship’s destruction.”

“You did?”

He nodded. “Oh yes, a heroic crew-woman evacuated with it.”

Now, admittedly that crew woman was currently stranded behind enemy lines with said core – assuming she did actually manage to get out in time – but he didn’t need to mention those small unimportant details.

“Oh, in that case, let me congratulate you on your successful ruse,” she said, smiling now.

He nodded. “My thanks.”

“Though now I do find myself curious about the method you used to achieve the explosion? Does it have something to do with your new aetherless-shards? And that’s another concept I’m still struggling to wrap my head around. I understand it has something to do with alchemy?”

William didn’t miss the way conversation around them ebbed as people became less subtle in eavesdropping on their conversation.

“It does, though I hope you’ll forgive me if I keep the details to myself for now.”

“Of course, of course,” the noblewoman tittered. “Though should you ever find yourself in search of buyers for your new craft, know that I might be interested. For the novelty, if nothing else.”

And to take it apart, no doubt. Oh, he already overheard plenty of disdainful comments about his new craft and how they’d be nothing compared to ‘real Shards’, but at the end of the day, any noble with even half a brain could see the advantage posed by no longer having a hard limit on their Shard numbers.

The attack on the capitol and the start of a civil war had somewhat overshadowed his new machines, but there was still plenty of interest.

Hell, I’m sure people would be even more rabid if they didn’t know the Crown currently has a huge surplus of mithril cores due to the Kraken Slayer, he thought.

“Still, going back to my earlier comments, I can’t help but wonder if your rebellious ways haven’t changed as much as found new targets, William Ashfield.”

“Redwater,” William corrected, softening it with a smile. “And perhaps, though I doubt anyone will argue that any grief I directed toward my then-fiancée wasn’t well deserved. And I’d like to point out that any vindictiveness I might have engaged in has been vindicated by her family revealing themselves as traitors.”

“Of course. Of course,” the countess agreed quickly. “I suppose not all of your old behaviour could be ruled to be in error. On that front, I can only hope you have better luck with your new fiancées.”

William smiled as both Clarice and Marcille tightened their holds on his arms, a synchronized squeeze that spoke volumes. “Given they’re slated to become the new Ladies of Summerfield, I feel quite secure in that being the case.”

And now finally they were at the crux of why he was here: gauging allegiances of the Summerfield nobles in the upcoming succession scrum. Of course, the twins already had a mental map of who was supporting who, but his recent arrival aboard the Jellyfish – complete with tacit crown backing – might well have reshuffled the deck on that front.

Hence this little probing mission.

“Ah, so you will be supporting their claim over your sister’s?” The Countess arched an elegant brow, her question laced with intrigue. “I had wondered – though I can’t say I’m surprised.”