mALX, Treydog, Grits and Foxy -- thanks for the comments!! Glad to see that people are reading and enjoying it!! Hope this isn't too soon after the holidays to start reposting (they seem like a month ago already, so I'm guessing not, but ) -- and I hope everyone had a great holiday season!!!



Frightening is the vale of death,
That world behind a curtain of mist
A veil of shadow to conceal it
And yet, ever in plain sight –
For what else, but Death
Is the focus of mankind's fear?
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Sixty-Five

Edward tiptoed up the stairs of the Tiber Septim Hotel, toward his room, cringing with every squeak or creak of the boards underfoot. His attempt, feeble as it was, at stealthiness was for naught, however, for his servant was sitting in the hall, waiting for him.

“Sir,” he greeted.

Deciding that the best defense was a good offense, Edward greeted his valet with, “I trust you've seen to the Khajiit matter?”

“You mean, paid him, sir?”

“Paid him, offed him, whatever...”

“Yes sir.” The other man shifted. “However...”

“Yes?”

“I ended up giving him my share of the gold as well.”

Edward blinked, astonished beyond belief. “Your...share? What do you mean, your 'share'?!”

“My cut of the gold. I figured, since he was leaving town, he could use it to get settled somewhere.”

“You...he...my gold?!” Edward sputtered.

“Our gold, sir,” his servant corrected. “I assumed, since you roped me into your work with Umbaccano, you had planned to pay me as well as S'razirr a portion?”

Edward blinked at this query, which seemed suspiciously like an accusation to him. He had had absolutely no intention of cutting his valet in on his take; somehow, though, he thought it wiser to deny that fact. “Well, of course...just...we hadn't negotiated the details...I...”

“Oh, no worries, sir. I ended up splitting it evenly between all three of us.”

“But...you promised that animal only a quarter!”

“Yes sir...but I realized afterwards that that wasn't very fair...without him, we would have a nasty fight on our hands back at Malada. I thought the extra would be a good bonus, for a job well done.”

Edward was turning colors now, so great was his rage that his servant would just nonchalantly throw his money away, and then make excuses for it afterwards.

“I figured you wouldn't mind, especially now that you have this new contract.”

Edward had gone purple by this point. “But...I...that was my gold!” he managed. Half of him wanted to fire his servant on the spot for his impudent behavior; and the other half of him stayed his hand, for fear that he might need him at Nenalata.

“So, sir, are we heading out to Cheydinhal yet today? Or are we staying here for the evening?”

Edward's rage dissipated, and he fought to keep the smile off his face. “No, actually...not quite yet.” He noted with pleasure the flicker of knowing annoyance that crossed his servant's face. “We have one final task from your old master...and then we'll head to Cheydinhal.”

Pass the ale, have a draft,
Sing a song, drink along
Drink, until they think we're daft
With taps running, how can we go wrong?
-- From A Life Well Lived, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Sixty-Six

After many protestations that Edward didn't realize what he was getting himself into, his valet had finally settled into quiet – though displeased – acceptance. “Very well, sir...if you say Nenalata it is, then Nenalata it must be. However...”

The Imperial sighed. “What now?”

“Can I have some time to read up on the place? I've heard some odd stories...”

Rolling his eyes, Edward agreed, “Fine, do whatever you want – take the rest of the evening off if you like. However – I don't want to hear any of it.”

“But sir -”

“No – not a word! Otherwise, you don't get the time off.”

The other man sighed. “Very well, sir.”

* * *

Edward was enjoying his eighth glass of wine when his servant returned.

“Sir!” he greeted.

Edward rolled his eyes and gurgled through a mouthful of drink at the other man.

Taking no note of this, his valet seated himself across from him. “Sir, I know you don't want to hear any of this...but I just spoke with Herminia Cinna.”

Edward snorted. “That desperate old bat,” he chortled. “What does she have to say?”

His servant stared, a bit astonished at this declaration, but continued with his tale. “Sir, we were talking about Nenalata, and Umbaccano. She thinks...”

Edward, however, interrupted at this point. “Oh, old Umby, eh? History buffs...no wonder he dresses like a clown. No sense of anything. Nose always in a book. Throws his money away on old hats – worse than a woman, that one. At least women spend their money on new hats. And shoes.” Edward shook his head at the idea, and drained his glass. Reaching for the bottle, he turned to his valet. “But what about old Umby? Has he finally decided to get a haircut?” Snorting with laughter, Edward refilled his glass.

“Sir, please,” his valet implored. “This is serious. Herminia thinks Umbaccano is trying to unlock the Last King of the Aleyid's power. He might not realize what he's getting himself into – or, worse yet, he does! Nenalata was a city of...”

“Oh, enough about Nelanata...Nanaleta...Nena...that stupid city!” Edward thundered, as well as one can thunder when slurring words. Slamming the bottle against the table, he paused to hiccup, then continued, “We are going, and that's final! You can save your scary stories and magical hat business, because it doesn't work. Edward the Imperial does not believe in ghosts and haunted hats or anything else like that.” He interrupted his monologue to take a sip of wine, but resumed with, “And another thing...you need to deal with the fact that I'm working for Umby...I don't care if you like it or not. You don't give the orders here – I do. So stop it with all the crap about power and magic and all the rest! You couldn't fool a kid with that crap. I'm insulted that you even...” Breaking off for another sip, he resumed, “try it on me!”

For a moment, his valet stared wordlessly at him as he drained his glass. Then, he said, “Sir, I don't know what you're talking about...this is...”

“Enough!” Edward roared. “Go away! Go read your books; that's what I gave you the night off for...leave me alone!” This last part was said in such a whiny tone that any question as to Edward's state of inebriation were clearly answered; he was good and truly on his way to total intoxication.

Sighing, his valet stood. “Yes sir. Very well sir. Have a good evening, then.”

“I intend to!” the Imperial shot back. “As long as I'm not pestered all night...”

“No sir. I'm leaving now.”

“And good riddance!” Edward called after his servant. Then, to the publican, “More wine!”

When the party is done,
And morning begins to dawn
The pain closes in all about
Quick, save yourself – have another draught!
-- From A Life Well Lived, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Edward woke with what seemed like thunder in his head. He had no idea where he was, or why; all he could remember were terrible dreams of magic hats. Glancing around him, he tried to ignore the agony that pierced his brain as light filtered through the blinds.

The room was vaguely familiar; and, in a moment, he processed his surroundings. He was back in his lodgings at the Tiber Septim Hotel. How, he wondered, had he got there? The last thing he remembered was being in the main room downstairs, drinking...how many bottles had it been?

A knock at the door sounded like the roar of a cannon in his ears, and he covered his head. “Who is it?” he called. Even his own voice sounded harsh to him.

The door opened, sending a wave of blinding white light over his senses. “Sir?” a familiar voice asked.

Edward groaned. It was his servant. “What?”

“Are you alright sir? I have some coffee here...”

Edward groaned again, although he felt some measure of relief as the door closed. Squinting, he was able to make out the figure of his valet approaching, carrying a breakfast tray.

“I thought you would probably have a bit of a headache this morning,” his valet was saying. Edward only groaned in response. “That was a lot of wine you drank last night, sir.” The Imperial glared at his servant. “Augusta Calidia was going to throw you out, because you were snoring so loudly at your table...I was able to get you up here before she could, though.”

Edward grunted a response. He loved to drink, but hated doing it...

“No worries, though...I had her brew this coffee extra strong. You'll be fine in no time.”

The Imperial glowered at his manservant, but took the cup he was offered.

“Now, sir...I'm not sure how much you remember of our conversation last night...”

Edward stared blankly at him. “What conversation?”

“Ah. Well then, better start at the beginning.”

* * *

After having pooh-poohed his servant's fears a second time – this time, while sober – Edward had flatly declared that magic hats or no magic hats, demons and elvish powers or not, even Oblivion itself, would not stop him from fulfilling his contract. “I get to loot the entire throne room!” he had explained.

This promise had left his servant even more suspicious, and he'd lost no time in pointing out that Umbaccano was not the sort of man to let ancient treasures fall into the hands of mere tomb raiders; how many men, he'd pointed out, had he sent in search of things like that, after all?

Edward had paid no attention whatever, however; he was far to mesmerized by the idea of raiding a throne room to take heed of any of his servant's points. So, at length, the two men – by this time, very annoyed with one another – set out.

As they rode, Edward busily calculated how rich he'd be once he'd hauled off all the Aleyid treasure he could carry. It was hard to get an exact estimation, of course, but, by his reckoning, he would end up richer than Ocato himself. This, of course, was all based on his fancy, for he had no clue whatever what awaited him. It made him smile, though, to think of it, and that was enough.

His servant, meanwhile, was going over the list of supplies and weapons he'd brought with them. Silver weapons, for killing undead; an enchanted ring, to protect against evil magicka; and enough supplies to get them to Nenalata and back to the Imperial City – after Edward's last refusal to go to Bravil had left them perilously short of supplies, he was taking no chances this time.

All at once, however, Edward pulled his mount to a sudden stop, exclaiming, “My gold!”

Narrowly avoiding his master, the valet asked, “Sir?”

“My purse! It's empty!”

“Empty, sir? You don't mean...”

“My two thousand Septims! I had them last night! Where are they now?!” Edward's eyes colored with suspicion as he stared at his servant.

“You didn't...you didn't take your entire paycheck with you when you were drinking last night, did you, sir?” the other man asked, astonished.

“Of course!” Edward snapped. “It was all safe in my purse. Where could it have gone?”

His servant sighed. “Sir, you were passed out for an hour...anyone...everyone could have taken whatever they wanted.”

Edward glared at him. “Are you saying this is my fault?!” he demanded.

“Of course not, sir. I'm only suggesting that a more prudent course of action might have avoided the...”

“You are!” the Imperial thundered. “You're blaming me for the sticky fingers of a pack of thieves?!”

“No sir, of course not. All I'm saying...”

“We need to go back!” Edward interrupted. “We need to find my money, and wreak vengeance on the filthy thief who dared to steal from me!”

“That will probably be impossible, sir,” his valet reasoned. “You were passed out...you have no memory of anyone taking it...no one said anything this morning...Augusta Calidia doesn't seem terribly fond of you, so I doubt she would turn the thief in if she knew who it was – and, if she would, she would have done so already.”

“But...but I can't just walk away from my fortune!” Edward protested. He felt shattered at the prospect, so utterly devastated that he might break into tears at the very idea.

“I'm afraid we don't have much of a choice, sir, if we're going to make it to Nenalata in the three days Umbaccano wants us there.”

Edward fought back the tears as he nodded. He knew his servant was right...the thieves wouldn't turn each other in, and Calidia – even if she wasn't guilty – hated his guts. His best shot at wealth was to continue toward Nenalata, and hope that his dreams of the endless treasures that awaited were remotely justified.

Edward fighting tears over losing his Septims - ROFL !!!!

But this is my favorite Edward line in these two chapters (regarding Herminia Cinna) :

Thanks, mALX...Edward's ego will, ever and again, get in the way of his brain -- what little there is, LOL.

Pride, they say, goes before the fall;
In his case, a plunge from the heights of the White Gold Tower
Would be naught in compare
To the depths that his ego will again and again send him.

-- Author's notes preceding The Song of Edward

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Three long days of travel had, at last, gotten them to Nenalata. Edward was weary and depressed, still not having recovered from the loss of his gold; and his servant was quiet and thoughtful, which only served to annoy the Imperial further.

The style-challenged elf awaited them, and so too did a familiar, unwelcome face. Claude Maric stood waiting for them, smiling broadly in welcome. “Ahh, old friend!” he greeted Edward. “You are looking well...”

The Imperial grunted at him in response.

“Although,” Maric continued with a toothy, self-satisfied grin, “a little light of purse.”

Edward and his valet started at this, and the former demanded, “What?! It was you, then?”

“Me? I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, old friend. I just note that you walk like a man whose purse is not burdened with Septims.” He smiled again, even as Edward reached for his sword.

Umbaccano, however, ambled over just in time, declaring, “Ahh, you arrive at last!” He paused to stare in surprise at Edward's valet. “Norvayne! Whatever are you doing out here?”

With a stiff, formal air, the valet nodded a greeting. “Sir. I'm accompanying my master.”

Umbaccano uttered a short laugh, and gestured toward Edward. “You mean him? Poor chap, you have gone down in the world. No matter. After today – provided your employer intends to share with you – you'll be rich enough to employ half a dozen menservants of your own.”

Both Imperials frowned at the elf, but Umbaccano seemed to take no note. “Now then, are we ready? I'm going to need you two – three, rather – to clear the way for me. I know right where the throne room is, so I can direct you...but I'll let you handle the fighting.”

“Speaking of that,” the valet interjected, “what exactly do you need in the throne room?”

Umbaccano raised an eyebrow and stared at the valet. Then, turning to Edward, he queried, “And you put up with this?”

Edward turned red at the implication that he would let his servant second guess him. “No, of course not!”

“Good...because I certainly don't. My subordinates do not question me. And most certainly my subordinates' subordinates do not!”

“No sir,” Edward agreed, flushing again and throwing a furious glance at his valet.

“Good...now, let's head out.”

“Yes sir,” Maric said, smirking at Edward. “I'll let Master Edward lead the way since he apparently has so much experience with these Aleyid ruins.”

“Me? What? No!” Edward protested.

“Oh, my mistake then,” Maric smiled. “I thought you were supposed to be quite the adventurer.”

“I am!” Edward snapped. “I just meant that I would allow you the honor of going first.”

Umbaccano sighed in frustration. “One of you get in there first!”

“I'll go,” Edward's valet volunteered, stepping forward.

Maric snickered, and, flushing, Edward snapped, “No you won't! If this coward won't take the honor of first blood, I will gladly go!” Pushing past his servant brusquely, Edward stormed into the ruin.

A barbarous climate, death of the civilized man
Designed with one purpose in mind –
A home for a people as uncivilized as it
And in this the gods could not have been more successful.

-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Edward cringed as the stone door of Nenalata slid closed behind him. Suddenly, his world was plunged into a veritable darkness, with only the distant, eerie bluish light leaking out of the occasional chamber to illuminate his way. In his mind's eye, he could see spiders lurking here and there, waiting to ambush him. A more pressing fear, however, preyed on his mind – and that was being seen standing still, just behind the door, when the cowardly Breton and the pompous elf entered the ruin; and that fear drove him onward.

So, his heart hammering out a fast paced rhythm, he crept forward. The ruin was silent – frighteningly so. The rush of blood as it thundered past his ears seemed to be the only thing he could make out at the moment.

His eyes didn't offer many more clues, either; he was surrounded by old stone, aged by many long years of disuse and neglect, and covered in layers of dust and spiderwebs. Eerie greenish-blue gems cast pockets of light here and there, but Edward half would have preferred the darkness to that creepy glow. “How could these elves lived like this?” he wondered in disgust. “Underground, like animals; cold, dank halls...no wonder the Imperials overthrew them...”

Lost in these thoughts, Edward began to take less and less note of his surroundings. He had followed a hall, and was now descending a staircase. He imagined Umbaccano and his valet must be somewhere behind him, but didn't stop to look; he didn't want to give the impression, no matter how accurate, that he was in the least frightened.

All at once, however, the Imperial heard a sound that made his blood curdle; it seemed like the rattle of bones and chains, and the screech of a dimension beyond earthly reckoning. To his horror, as he stood, frozen in place, it seemed to come closer.

And then, there it was. A skeleton – not of the proper variety, long buried and forgotten, but of the animate, undead sort. This horror, come straight from the pages of stories Edward had long disbelieved, stared with empty eye sockets at him, and then opened a skeletal mouth to let loose another hellish shriek.

And that was the last thing that Edward saw, before he collapsed into a heap on the ground.

* * *

The brush of a bony finger on his cheek roused Edward from his faint, and all at once the full terror of his situation came back to him. He was in an Aleyid ruin – a haunted Aleyid ruin; and that bony hand could only be...

Edward leaped to his feet, shrieking in absolute terror. In doing so, he collided full force with the skeletal creature that had, a moment earlier, been examining him; but overpowering fear blinded his senses and dulled his thoughts. He knew one thing, and one thing only...and that was that he must escape.

The bony fingers of the apparition clung to him as he attempted flight, but Edward would not be stopped; with one hand, he seized his attacker's skull, and with the other, its ribs. In an instant, he had, in a burst of unknown strength, pulled the skeleton's skull from its torso, and the thing collapsed to the ground in a heap of dust and bone.

But Edward did not take a moment to think about his situation, or plan any defense or attack; he was still in the full grip of terror, and terror drove him on, deeper into the ruin.

Rounding a bend, he found himself face to face with a ghastly, ghostly spirit creature. Numbly, as if by instinct – for no thought went into the action – he seized hold of the thing nearest him. It was a spiked metal light fixture, but it might well have been a vase of flowers for all that Edward took note; nonetheless, he plunged it through the creature, who let loose a hellish shriek and seemed to turn to a wisp of glowing powder before Edward's eyes. This bizarre encounter only heightened the Imperial's sense of desperation...and on he drove.

Every new encounter left some creature, some undead beast, dead – torn to pieces, impaled, crushed, smashed into a thousand fragments of bone. Finally, Edward had run the length of the ruin, and he stood now, in a large room, with nowhere else to run. Shaking, panting, and utterly terrified, he collapsed to the floor.

He hardly remembered his flight, and certainly not slaying the things he had slain. All he knew was that there was nowhere left to go, no escape – and a ruin full of hell spawn behind him.

Fortunately for the Imperial, however, the hell spawn had all already been slain in his frenzy, and the only living creatures, beside himself, in Nenalata were Umbaccano and his entourage. At that very moment, in point of fact, they were traversing the halls wonderingly, stopping to marvel at Edward's panicked handiwork as they came across it.

“Amazing,” Umbaccano said. “I wouldn't have thought he had it in him!”

The valet snorted. “You have a habit of underestimating people.”

“What's that smell?” Maric wondered, covering his nose. “It smells like urine!”

That was quite right, for, in his fearful state, Edward had somehow lost control of his bladder – and, along with the trail of destroyed undead, left a trail of urine as well.

“What's that smell?” Maric wondered, covering his nose. “It smells like urine!”

That was quite right, for, in his fearful state, Edward had somehow lost control of his bladder – and, along with the trail of destroyed undead, left a trail of urine as well.


Ah...Edward and mALX.... siblings in pissing!!!

Justice will, in the end, be meted out
And the guilty shall find the Fate they have made for themselves.

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Seventy

As his senses began to ebb back, Edward, reeking and trembling, finally picked himself off the floor. He had no idea what he was going to do, or where he would go. Would they come looking for him? He doubted it. Umbaccano was hardly the heroic type, and Maric would love nothing better than to see him fall to the undead. As for his servant...well, the man was a servant, after all; and they were notorious for their disloyalty.

“I'm doomed,” he whispered to the silent stone around him. “They've all abandoned me to die here.”

This, of course, was not the case, for his companions were, at that moment, just two rooms away, and making their way steadily toward Edward. His trail of urine had proved effective at preventing them from making wrong turns; following that, they were able to retrace exactly the path he had pursued.

Edward had half made up his mind to attempt to find his way out of the ruin when he heard the voices of his party. Maric was complaining about stench, his valet was noting that, for all the Breton's complaints, he had not ventured into the ruin alone, and Umbaccano was prattling on about the history of the city.

The Imperial found himself a mixture of both relief and annoyance at the same time; he was relieved not to be alone to face whatever existed in these ruins, but annoyed to have this irksome bunch as his companions.

“Edward!” his valet greeted. “There you are!”

“We were about to drown in this trail of piss you left, you filthy animal!” Maric put in.

“This is it! The throne room of Nenalata!” Umbaccano offered, ignoring the conversation of the others.

Edward glanced around him, suddenly forgetting his fear altogether. This? This was the throne room of Nenalata? This barren stone room, this featureless ancient monstrosity? Where was the treasure? Where were the piles of gold and gems that Umbaccano had promised – or, at least, allowed him to dream of?

“Right past here,” the elf declared, his voice reaching a fevered pitch. He brushed past Edward, only slightly wrinkling his nose at the odor, and headed for a cutout in the stone wall.

The Imperial frowned to himself. He had, somehow, missed it; but what could its significance be, anyway?

As if in answer to that query, Umbaccano pulled out the stone carving from Malada, and inserted it into the cut-out, chanting in a high pitched tone, “Av Auri-El ye Tamri-El dellevoy an Arpen Aran tarnabye!”

Edward was more amazed by the realization that the elf had been able to lug that stupid chunk of stone all this ways without it affecting him than that the entire wall shivered, and then collapsed downward.

His valet, meanwhile seized his arm. “Sir...did he just say 'grant the King passage'?”

Edward stared at him. Did he really expect him to understand the elf's mad ramblings?

Umbaccano stepped into the newly revealed room, and the group followed; to his dismay, Edward saw no treasure here, either. “I thought you said this had never been looted?” he demanded of the elf.

Umbaccano smiled at him, and took what seemed to be a helmet of some sort from the bag he carried. “The real treasure is about to be revealed. Prepare for the glorious rebirth of Tam Riel!” Donning the helmet, the elf strode forward.

“Sir, Herminia was right. We have to stop him!” Norvayne shouted.

Claude Maric, however, stepped forward and seized the valet's arm. “What do you think you're doing?”

At that moment, though, Umbaccno seated himself in the throne of Nenalata, and began again to chant. “Av Sunna Tam Riel arctavoy an Arpen Aran malaburo!”

“He's trying to resurrect the power of the Aleyids!” Norvayne shouted. With a swift blow to the side of Maric's head, he knocked the other man to the ground and raced forward. “We've got to stop him, sir, before he unleashes -”

A blast of lightning split the room, leaping from the four corner pillars, and a thunderous noise rent the air. The valet jumped backwards just in time to avoid the scorching jolts, and Maric let out a yelp of fear. For his part, Edward stood dumbfounded, too frightened to say or do anything.

Above all of this noise, though, came the elf's shrill scream of pain; for the lightening had descended on him from the four corners of the room. For a moment, he struggled to pull off his helmet...and then, in the next, he slumped forward. As suddenly as it started, the blasts ended.

Edward tried to ignore the trickle that ran down his legs, vowing never to drink so much before entering a ruin again. His valet carefully headed for the lifeless body on the throne; and Claude Maric remained on the floor, curled in a ball.

A trail of piss! I see Buffy's not the only one!

What? No piles of gold? No heaps of gems? Just a bunch of lifeless stones and cobwebs and mold?

Whoops.

I had to laugh at the vision of that Maric curled up into a ball on the floor! He sure had that coming. In the game, if he survived Malada, he certainly was of no practical use in Nenalata!

Chapter 68: SPEW !!! ROFL !!!
Chapter 69: SPEW !!! ROFL !!!
Chapter 70: SPEW !!! ROFL !!!

Edward leaves a trail of pee all the way through Nenalata and is still peeing while he stands there at the end - three full chapters of pee ... BWAAAHAAAA!!!!! Hilarious !!!! Great Addition, I am so glad you gave us this bonus segment with Umbacano !!!!

@Foxy, haute ecole rider, malx: lol, Edward has no control over his reason, his senses, his reactions...why should his bladder be any different?
As for Maric, yes, lol, I thought that portrayal was fitting. I mean, he's a pretty poor villain -- he threatens you and then takes off running the instant he's in danger. Not that he's able to do much in a fight anyway, lol...


The path of reason,
The wise man will gladly tread
But it is as hot coals
To the feet of the incorrigible fool.

-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”
Chapter Seventy-One

The trio emerged, shaken but unharmed, into the sunlight some little while later. The valet carried Umabccano's lifeless body; Claude Maric carried a few valuable stones he'd picked up throughout the ruin; and Edward carried nothing.

“We'll have to give him a proper burial, sir,” Norvayne declared. “Whatever he intended to do, he deserves better than being entombed with the undead.”

Claude rolled his eyes. “Once a servant, always a servant. He would have killed you...killed all of us...what do you care if the rats feast on his carcass?”

“I wouldn't expect one of your caliber to understand, Maric,” the other man commented.

The Breton laughed mockingly. “Well, as far as I'm concerned, it was an unfortunate end to a profitable relationship...I have no idea where I'll find another like him.”

Edward curled his lip in disgust, thinking this was some outpouring of emotion from Umbaccano's prostitute.

“Oh well...life goes on,” the Breton smiled. “At least I've got some nice Welkynd stones to sell...”

“And I've got nothing...” Edward sighed. “He promised me a room full of treasure....”

Claude laughed. “You really don't belong in this business, my friend.” The Imperial glared at him, but Maric walked past, toward his horse. “Although, I do recommend a bath for you. You stink.”

“Ignore him, sir,” the valet suggested. “Let's get the hole dug.”

Edward stared at his servant, an eyebrow raised. “You don't actually think that I am going to help bury that son of an elf, after he cheated me out of my gold?!”

* * *

Several hours later, after his manservant had finished giving Umbaccano a proper burial, an impatient Edward was finally able to set out. His impudent subordinate had insisted that he bathe before they leave, so, whilst the servant dug the grave, he had lounged in the stream. Nonetheless, he was eager to leave; as easy-going as his time outside of Nenalata was, he had no desire to linger near a haunted ruin.

So, it was with great joy that the Imperial turned his back on the ruin, at last. “Finally...that's done,” he sighed.

His servant nodded. “There's one thing I don't get, though, sir. It's that attack on him...he was wearing a crown, an Aleyid crown...he chanted the incantation that should have unleashed the power of Nenalata to his command...instead, it turned on him.” He frowned. “I wonder...”

Edward rolled his eyes. Who cared about the details, he wondered, as long as the honoured user was dead?!

“You acquired that crown, didn't you, sir?”

“That's right.”

“Are you sure you got the right one?”

Edward stared in annoyance at his servant.

“I mean,” the other man hurried to explain, “the only reason I can think of for that sort of reaction is if the crown he wore wasn't really the crown of Nenalata. If it was some other Aleyid kingdom's crown – there were many of them, you know, and they all hated each other. If he was wearing a rival kingdom's crown, Nenalata's defenses might have attacked him.”

Loosing a sigh of extreme aggravation, Edward demanded, “Who cares? I'm never going back there, you're never going back there...what does it matter?! And why must you put the blame on me? I bought the crown, the crown Umbaccano told me to get. It was his stupid fault, not mine!”

“I'm not blaming you, sir. I'm just trying to figure out what happened.”

“A stingy, thieving honoured user met a fitting end,” Edward snapped. “That's it. End of story.”

His valet sighed.

“Now, let's get to Cheydinhal. I have work to do. Real work.”

“Yes sir.”

“I can't believe I ever let you talk me into this in the first place.”

Bring me fortune, bring me fame,
Ye gods above hear my pleas
Bring me treasure, bring me gain
Oh gods ignore not my entreaties!
-- Edward's prayer as a child

Chapter Seventy-Two

At the Imperial's insistence, the two men had turned their horses toward a chapel that had been some way off, but visible, from Nenalata. “I refuse to sleep on the ground like an animal!” Edward had steadfastly maintained. “We can seek shelter at that church...I'm sure the priests have nothing better to do than put up weary travelers, so it shouldn't be an inconvenience. And, anyway, they might have some food – actual food, and not the garbage that you make; and I'm famished!”

His valet had frowned. “I don't know, sir. I think that is Cadlew Chapel.”

“So?”

“I believe it's been defunct for some years now.”

Edward stared down his nose superciliously at the other man. “And who is this diviner of the ways of the church that I am to disbelieve the evidence of my own eyes in favor of his...superior...inside knowledge?”

His valet blinked at him. “Sir?”

“Look at the damned church, man!” Edward snapped. “There's smoke coming from the chimney! And there! There's a black robed man – and another, with him.”

Frowning in the direction Edward had pointed, the valet said naught.

“Honestly,” the Imperial fumed, “your airs are tiresome!”

A bewildered expression crossed the manservant's face. “Airs, sir?”

“Yes! Your pretentious airs! You have to know everything about everything. How on earth would you know which chapels are or aren't in use, anyway?! There's got to be hundreds of them throughout Cyrodiil.”

“Not at all, sir,” the valet contradicted. “There's not even two dozen in Cyrodiil.” Edward glared at him. “And it's by no means pretentiousness on my part, sir – I know quite by accident, as it happens. At the monastery, they had -”

“Stop!” Edward demanded, his brow wrinkled in distaste. “Even in your defense – your pathetically unconvincing defense, I might add – of your smug pomposity, you are smugly...pompous!”

The other man's face was a mask of consternation. “Sir, I did not mean -”

“No!” Edward interrupted. “Enough! Stop making excuses, and apologize!”

“Apologize?”

“Yes!” Edward fumed. “This instant! It's about time that you remember your place – all day you've been ordering me about, telling me what's what, and talking to me as if I was your subordinate! Just because you happened to make a lucky guess about Umbaccano's motives, you think that that gives you the right to treat me like a fool? Me, who -”

“Sir, I never -”

Edward's glare was fixed now. “Enough with the excuses,” he growled. “Do as your told! Apologize! Or does your inflated ego object?!”

“Of course not, sir; I just -”

“Good! Then you will apologize!”

His servant stared at him, perplexedly, for a moment, and fidgeted, as if weighing two courses of action.

“Now!”

The other man sighed. “Yes sir. I'm sorry if anything I said or did seemed -”

“Was!”

“...like it was meant to be anything less than respectful.”

Edward sniffed. It wasn't the ideal apology – in fact, his wayward servant had practically shirked all responsibility – but he didn't dare to push it too much farther. He had got the man to apologize; that was something, after all. “Very well,” he declared with a self-satisfied smile. “Then, servant, let us set our course for the chapel!”

Oh no, Cudlow Chapel !! SPEW !! And "the valet" figuring out Edward had given the wrong crown - ROFL !! I am so glad you didn't deprive us of this Umbacano questline - it was like getting a special treat in the midst of enjoying the chapters that we know and love !!! Awesome Write !!!

Thanks, mALX -- it's been a lot of fun bringing back this original dynamic between Edward and the valet. Glad you are enjoying it!!





You say, “There's much to be done, much to be said.”
I say, “There's naught to do, it's all in your head,
And anyway, before you know it, we'll all be dead
So pour a glass, don't waste precious time, drink up I said!”
-- From On Priorities and Life, by the Inebriated Odist

Chapter Seventy-Three

Edward reined his horse to a halt some dozen or so yards from the chapel, and dismounted with a sigh. The horse had suddenly grown quite irritable – perhaps, he'd thought with a smirk, it was as pleasantly disposed toward religion as he – so he dared not continue on horseback, but must, instead, persevere on foot for the last stretch. But that was not what caused the Imperial to sigh. The ride – short as it had been – in the afternoon sun had worked up quite a thirst in him, but even greater than his thirst was his hunger; he was positively famished. “Take care of the horses,” he told his manservant. “I'm going to see if the priests can put us up. And feed us.”

He heard his valet say something about him waiting, but he had no intention of doing so. The other man was apparently resuming his worrywart routine, and attempting to squeeze the full advantage out of his one lucky guess; but Edward had not time for such theatrics. “I'm starved,” he thought peevishly, “and this stupid servant wants to waste my time with his paranoia?”

As he drew nearer the chapel, he saw a robed figure pass in front of the window, and smiled to himself. The priests must have seen him arrive. “Good...no doubt they're already making ready the accommodations...”

The chapel door opened, and a man in a dark, ankle-length garment stepped out and smiled. “Ahh, traveler!” he greeted. “How may the humble friary of Cadlew assist you?”

It was Edward's turn to smile. If only, he thought with a touch of satisfaction, his servant could have witnessed this obliging gentleman's greeting, he might be singing a different tune; so much for his tales of villainy and suspicion.

“My servant and I,” the Imperial answered, “were rather hoping we might avail ourselves of traveler's hospitality, and spend the night here.”

“Of course!” the priest replied. “My brothers and I would be honored if you would share our humble rectory with us as long as you desire.”

“And,” Edward continued, “feed us.”

“Pardon me?”

“Well, we're rather...famished...” the Imperial confessed.

“Oh!” the priest remarked. “Traveling without supplies? Is that wise, in these remote reaches?”

Edward shifted uncomfortably. “Well...it's not that...exactly...just that...”

“Never you mind,” the other man remarked with a smile. “Be that as it may, it would be our privilege to share our humble fare with you.”

Smiling, the Imperial inwardly hoped that the priest was being modest. “I hope it's not that humble,” he thought.

“Will you not come in?” the robed man asked, gesturing toward the door. “We are, in fact, just preparing our evening meal...”

“Oh!” Edward exclaimed, checking himself even as he began to lick his lips with anticipation.

“It might, at this very moment, be ready, in fact,” the priest continued.

Nodding eagerly, the Imperial raced toward the door; moving so quickly, his mind preoccupied with one topic – feeding – he missed the sinister grin that crossed the priest's face.

* * *

The valet frowned as he secured his and Edward's mounts in the little stable behind the rectory. There was a third horse there, and something about the animal seemed somehow familiar.

It snorted as he neared, in much the same nervous fashion as the two beasts he led. Still frowning, he murmured a low level calming spell. The animals quieted, but were hardly relaxed. “Come on,” he spoke soothingly. “Be good and...” He trailed off as his eyes picked up what it had been that struck him as familiar....the pack, hanging off the side of the third horse's stall.

“Maric!” he hissed, for it was the same bag that the adventurer had filled with Welkynd stones only hours before; and the horse, who had resumed his whinnying, was the same that the Breton had rode off on.

Detestation was, perhaps, too harsh a term, but it conveyed something in the vein of the valet's regard for his wily former colleague.

That, however, was not his primary concern; at the moment, his mind was dwelling on Edward's purse, and Maric's claim – which he did not for a moment doubt – that he had emptied it. If Maric was inside the chapel, Edward was as like as not to remember his stolen fortune, and demand its return. Maric, especially after exposing himself for the coward he was – to say nothing of the contrast of his craven actions with Edward's fearless clearing of Nenalata's undead population – was hardly likely to be in a cooperative state of mind.

“Oh blast,” he thought. Closing the gate to the stable with a hurried promise to the horses that he'd be back to tend to them “soon,” he raced for the Priory. “If Maric's mood is remotely like Edward's, the chapel will be a bloody war zone unless I intervene...”

Ooh, but why do I believe that Maric is the main course?

Can't wait to see what happens next!

GAAAAH! Eating Maric stew ... then sleeping in the chapel - WOO HOO!!!!! How could you ever have left these chapters out of the original???? They are AWESOME !!!! I am on the edge of my seat !!!!! Thank you, thank you Rachel for deciding to give us these bonus chapters, they are GREAT !!!!

haute ecole rider & mALX: Thanks, lol...nahh, they're not really ready to eat at all...the Necromancer can just tell that Edward is obsessed w/eating at that moment, lol.
As for leaving these chapters out, I hadn't initially written them, but wanted to include that quest at some future point....I just never got around to it as the story progressed. As I was editing, though, this seemed the perfect place to add them

Beware, oh beware!
For the Priests of the Dead,
If they find you unaware
Will surely make off with your head!
-- Child's rhyme about Necromancy

Chapter Seventy-Four

Unbeknownst to the dutiful manservant, however, the church was already a bloodied battlefield. The building reeked of blood and decaying bodies; and the source of this stench was apparent at a glance. Everywhere there were human remains – even the altar at the far end of the room was strewn with body parts. Blood stained the floorboards, and colored the stone walls of the chapel. A body, motionless and bleeding, lay on a table near the altar, macabre tools all about.

Edward, having taken all of this in as he entered, had fainted as he turned for explanation to his sinisterly smiling escort. At the moment, this Priest of the Dead – for that, a Necromancer, was what he was – was, in company with another of his kind, dragging the Imperial's limp body to the table whereon lay the other intact body.

“Go find the other – I'll take care of him,” the Necromancer who had lured Edward in instructed. “He went to the back, by the stables. Try not to kill him, as long as he cooperates.”

The other man nodded, and dropped Edward's head and shoulders to the ground as he turned to obey his superior's orders.

Hauling Edward toward the table, the first grunted. Today had brought them a rare stroke of fortune – three bodies, and all live, fresh ones, on which to perform rituals. But he wondered that there should be so many, all at once, in these desolate reaches; even the Church had abandoned this wilderness. Why, now, this sudden spurt of adventurers?

“Oh well,” he mused, speaking as if to the limp Edward, “we'll just have to wring it out of you, won't we?” He smiled again as he threw the unmoving Imperial onto the table, beside and atop the other body.

This first captive flinched and whimpered as Edward was dropped onto him, and the Necromancer sneered. “Quiet, you, or I'll make you suffer as you've never yet suffered.”

“Please...” the bound man murmured over the gag that muffled him. “Please, let me go!”

“I said quiet!” the Priest of Death repeated. “I don't want to-”

At that moment, a crash of glass sounded, and one of the chapel windows opposite splintered into a thousand pieces. The Necromancer cursed as he started in surprise. “What the...?”

The robed upper body of another man – his fellow Necromancer – appeared for a moment, and he seemed temporarily dazed; then he roused himself, shouting something to an unknown assailant.

“Damn it!” Edward's keeper cursed. “The other one...!” Grabbing a mace that lay near the bloodied altar, he paused to wind a rope around Edward's limp hands and feet, and raced for the door.

After he had gone, the chapel lay still, save for shouts outside, first near the rectory and then further away, until, at last they were inaudible.

“Edward!” the conscious captive mumbled through his gag. “Edward, wake up!”

The Imperial, however, lay still as a sleeping babe, making neither sound nor move.

“Edward!” the other man grunted. When there came no response, he pushed with his bound arms against the Imperial. This movement rocked his still body, but achieved nothing else. “Damn you!” the captive cursed, pushing again, but this time harder.

Edward's body moved, tipping precariously over the edge of the table; but then he settled again on the prisoner. A savage gleam lighted the other man's eyes, and he cursed, “Idiot!”

With a mighty shove, he hoisted the Imperial over the edge of the table. He heard him land and murmur something, as if he was coming to, with satisfaction; then, he began to maneuver himself upon the table.

This was not so easy as hoisting Edward off, however, for – as the Necromancers had had more time to secure him – they had done a better job of tying him. His rope was fastened to a hook in the wall overhead, but this he thought he might, with sufficient pressure, be able to pull out. It had, by the look of it, been hammered into the stone clumsily by the Priests of the Dead, and though wedged in tightly, might come out eventually.

Sweat beaded off his forehead as he worked, and the ropes round his wrists cut deep into his flesh, but the prisoner persevered feverishly. The occasional unconscious whimper from Edward went almost unnoticed as he pulled and cursed and strained against his fetters; and then, without the least warning, the hook gave way, and he found himself plummeting backwards.

He fell at an angle back against the table, and, for a moment, his fall was interrupted; but, though he was no longer affixed to the wall, his hands were yet bound, and proved powerless at stabilizing him; so, though he grabbed with his fingers, he slipped from the tabletop, onto the unconscious Imperial.

WOO HOO!!! "The Valet" throws the guy UPHILL and through a window - I think he used to live next door to me, I saw my neighbor do that once !!! (and a pretty awesome sight, I might add, lol)

And Edward ... in a dead faint through everything - SPEW !!! Hilarious !!!! ROFL !!!

mALX: haha, what, you expected him to do something like...escape? ;P

Hear the voice of your Father,
My Children, listen to my words
The sun yet slumbers in the east
But soon, very soon, it shall awaken!
-- Excerpt from a sermon by Mankar Camoran

Chapter Seventy-Five

Edward started, his eyes opening wide in fear. His dreams had been strange, and full of unknown terrors, but something had just now – and quite suddenly – awoken him from sleep.

With a shrill screech, some blending of terror and disgust, Edward saw what it was that had assailed him. It – he – was the prostitute, Claude Maric, lying atop him, his face mere inches from his own.

“Ahhhhh!” Edward screeched again, fighting in vain to free himself from his assailant. To his horror, he found his hands bound. His eyes widened in renewed mortification. Clearly, this too was the work of the prostitute – to render him powerless to escape his vile attentions.

Edward began to thrash this way and that, trying to force his assailant off him, all the while screeching in horror. Maric spoke something in a muffled tone, and shielded his face from the Imperial's blows, as he rolled away from him.

Dragging himself backwards, Edward glared with disgust at the other man, whose eyes watched him with a mixture of fury and incomprehension. It was only when the Breton pulled the gag out of his mouth with bound hands that the Imperial stopped to notice, pausing midscream, that he, too, was fastened.

“You fool!” Maric exclaimed. “Shut up before your screaming brings them back!”

“Them?” Edward repeated.

“The Necromancers!”

A sudden pallor touched the Imperial's cheeks as the memories of late which his mind had so far suppressed flooded back. “Wait...the priest...he...the bodies...oh gods!” The stench, the blood all around him, and the miscellaneous body parts in various states of decay, too, suddenly came to his attention. He let loose a wail of horror.

“Quiet, fool!” Maric hissed.

Edward, however, had no mind to be silent, for he continued to whimper and cry in anguish, backing as far away from the table and its macabre tools as he could. This movement stopped when he backed into the altar, and that encounter in turn dislodged a partially dissected arm from its resting place above his head. This limb fell with a splat on Edward's skull; and at the sight, smell and feel of something so hideous, the Imperial's reason was all but gone. His limbs yet bound, he frantically crawled and hopped across the floor, falling here and there only to pick himself up again, and run in circles. Every new move brought him in contact with some new horror, and this in turn fed his panic. So he raced one way, only to stop and go another the next moment, as he made his way around this course of horrors.

It was only when a body impacted sharply with his, throwing him first into a pew, and then onto the blood-covered stone floor, that Edward's panicked flight pattern was disrupted. It was the bound Breton, who glared at him. “Idiot! Do you want them to come back? We need to untie each other, and then -”

But Edward had already sunk into a new fit of panic, and lay on the ground, flailing in place and screaming at the top of his lungs.

Watch the grand play,
Play your part,
Part the lines,
Line the field with the dead.
-- The Charge, a speech delivered by Emperor Augustus I to his outnumbered forces before the final, decisive charge at the Battle of Dremora Field


Chapter Seventy-Six

Even as he dispatched of the last Necromancer, he had heard the anguished screams of his comrade. “Blast!” he thought. “There must be more of them!”

Already, the valet battled the two Priests of the Dead that Edward had seen, and several of their vile undead conjurations. He had hoped, in luring them away from the chapel, to draw the Necromancers to him; but, if he was to judge by the wails of horror issuing from the rectory, this was not the case.

So, pushing himself with every ounce of his strength, the valet raced toward the chapel. The sounds of combat leaked outward, seeming to confirm his suspicion that some terrible torture, some hideous Necromancer ritual, had been begun, and he lost not a moment in bursting through the doors, his blade at the ready.

To his astonishment, however, he saw only Edward and Claude Maric. The telltale noises of combat had, indeed, come from the chapel; but they were the sounds of the contest upon which these two men were presently engaged. Edward, partially bound, was wielding a small dagger, and Maric, a rope tied round his hands and another around his feet, was still managing to pummel him with what looked to be a severed arm.

Staring in mortified amazement, the valet confirmed this first surmise; it was, indeed, a limb that the Breton was wielding, and rather effectively at that, for he managed to beat Edward again and again with it – a splatting stroke on the head here, on the arm there, on the face again. The Imperial, for his part, was cursing and lunging rather hopelessly with his dagger, either tripping on the other man's ropes or being rebuffed by his macabre fleshy weapon each time.

“Edward! Maric!” he managed in astonishment.

Both men started, turned toward him, weapons at the ready, and then went a deep shade of crimson. “Nor...Norvayne!” Maric stammered, dropping the decaying arm he held with a splat.

The Imperial, though he did not speak, hid the dagger behind his back, and drew himself up tall, angling his nose toward the ceiling.

“What...were you doing?”

This quickly proved to be a mistaken query, however, as both men launched into heated accusations against the other.

“This blithering coward drew a knife on me!” Maric shouted. “I tried to get him to escape, but he...”

“Liar!” Edward shot back. “I woke up to this sick son of a Breton trying to kiss me!”

“Kiss you?” the Breton blanched. “I'd sooner chew on that maggot-infested arm than touch my mouth to yours, you putrid animal!”

“A likely story!” the Imperial sneered. “You spotted your chance, now that Umbaccano is dead, and tried to take it. And if you weren't interested in kissing me – and worse – what were you doing on top of me like that? And with your mouth right above mine -”

“Ye gods!” Claude recoiled, seeming to go green at the very suggestion. “You are as dense as you are disgusting! I fell off the table, trying to wake your stupid -”

“So you randomly go around kissing people after you fall?” Edward snorted.

“How could I kiss you?! I was gagged!”

“That didn't stop you from trying!”

“That's it!” Maric shouted, reaching for the weapon he'd dropped. “I'm going to do what I should have done a long time ago...”

“Not if I finish you first,” Edward snarled, retrieving his dagger. “I'll show you what I think of your 'attentions'... ”

The valet, still standing in the church entryway cleared his throat. The two men's attention shifted again to him, and again they lowered their weapons. “Guys, I think you're overreacting here.” Both men tried to protest, but he gestured for silence and pressed on. “Why don't you both just calm down...put down the weapons. Edward, drop the dagger...Maric, the...arm...” Begrudgingly, both men did as they were told. “That's better...now, why don't we get you both untied, and get out of here?”

“Very well,” Maric nodded, straightening up a bit. “Although I'm not sure it was necessary to require me disarming.” And then, as if the fury of a moment before, and the terror of the moments before, were forgotten, the Breton sounded his characteristic laugh.

SPEW!!! [gasp...choke, choke...gasp] GAAAA ... BWAAAHAAA !!!! ROFL !!! [gasp...BWAHaaaurgh...bleaga]

** mALX died laughing in front of her PC. Her ghost was heard screaming "The arm! BWAAAHAAA! Meric ...the prostitute ... kiss...BWAAAHAAA!!!"

Disarming!!!

Oooh, the comedy of errors! And Norvayne the only sane person in that chapel!

I knew that Edward was going to wake up with Maric on top of him and instantly think of the 'prostitute!' Ahhhh!

mALX: Sorry 'bout that, wha'? No 'arm meant. (Sorry...watching some British shows...and everything is said with an accent in my head now...LOL) Glad you're enjoying!!
Grits: That's the one thing about (this) Maric that I actually like -- his total irreverence/bizarre sense of humor. Glad you liked it too!
haute ecole rider: haha, could there be any other explanation? Poor Edward...all he has to put up with. Thanks for posting -- glad to see you enjoyed Edward's newest escapades.

Listen, and hear the wise, wise words
Spoken wisely and in wisdom by the wise man
Listen, and hear the true, true truths
Spoken truthfully and in truth by the honest man.
-- From the Philosophy of Life, attributed to the ancient sages

Chapter Seventy-Seven

The trio had set up camp some ways from the chapel; though they – or, rather, the valet – had disposed of all the Necromancers and undead they had come across, they nonetheless thought it wiser to abscond from that place as quickly as possible, lest there be any lingering Priests of the Dead, or their unnatural spawn, in the vicinity.

Also, for all his prowess at thrashing Edward, Claude Maric had sustained several rather significant injuries when he'd first been taken by the Necromancers, and these needed to be treated in a sterile – or as sterile as possible – environment; and the putrid lair of the Priests of the Dead did not qualify.

So, hidden under a rock outcropping some ways from the river, they set up camp. Edward, despite reeking of decayed flesh, had not stopped complaining of hunger since they'd left Cadlew Chapel; in response, his valet had hastily started a fire, and thrown together a handful of ingredients to cook over it. “Alright, sir – I will fetch water to boil for cleaning Maric's wounds; you tend the food.”

Edward gaped at him. “Me?” he demanded. “You want me to do the cooking?!”

“Unless you prefer to fetch the water.”

The Imperial scowled at the heavy vessel he was offered; his valet had to think he was mad to suppose he'd volunteer for such an assignment as lugging about a weighty kettle full of water. “Of course not!”

His valet nodded. “No worries, sir. I'll take care of that.”

“And who will cook?”

“You will, sir. Unless you want to wait until I come back to get dinner on...”

Edward's scowl deepened. “Why can't Maric cook?!”

“Oh, yes,” the Breton sighed. “Have the guy with open wounds all over his body handling the food. That would add interesting elements to the flavor, I'm sure.”

“You weren't so concerned about that when you were flinging chunks of decayed flesh all over me!” Edward shot back.

The valet cleared his throat to halt this new quarrel before it began. “Maric needs to rest,” he answered. “You are not injured, sir.”

Edward growled at the other man, who seemed to take no note as he turned toward the stream, kettle in hand, and Maric laughed at his unwilling Imperial chef.

After the valet had gone, the Breton remarked, “Well, well...Imperial cooking, eh?” He shivered. “There's only so much garlic a man can eat.”

Edward, glancing up from stirring the food, glared at him. “Garlic?! What is that supposed to mean, Breton?”

Maric smiled at the contemptuous emphasis the other man had used to describe him. “What do you think it means, brainy?”

Edward's glare intensified. “I think it means you're too much of a barbarian to appreciate quality cooking – that's what I think it means.”

Claude Maric smiled again. “Or maybe that I saw your valet cutting the garlic and throwing it in the pot...and, even had I not, I could smell it...”

The Imperial's scowl lifted a touch. “You mean...you can smell it even over...”

“The rotting flesh stink that you carry around? Yes, I can.”

Edward's expression of fury had returned. “That's not exactly my fault, is it?” he shot back.

“Oh no,” Maric intoned. “Unless one counts drawing a knife on a man provocation to defend oneself...”

“The knife was self defense!”

The Breton rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, of course...how could I forget the whole 'kissing episode.'”

“Exactly!”

“You're pathetic,” Maric sighed, his lip upturned in disgust.

Edward stared in astonishment at him. “Coming from someone who ties people up so that -”

“I didn't tie you up, you moron!” the Breton interrupted. “I told you – the Necromancers tied both of us up! I was trying to wake you up so you could escape before they came back.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “I'm sure you were.”

The expression of disgust had returned to the Breton's face. “I can't stand you...why the hell would I want to...to...to...” His face contorted with mortification at the idea, he trailed off, as if at a loss for words, so reprehensible was the idea to his mind of any form of physical contact with Edward.

The Imperial loosed a short, sarcastic laugh. “Nice try, Maric...but no one believes you.”

Claude Maric stared at him, two eyebrows raised. “Ohhh, let me guess...you're so irresistible that everyone jumps at the opportunity – even if it's being tied up and awaiting brutal execution in a Necromancer's lair – to...have their way with you?”

This was said with absolute contempt, but the tone seemed to go over Edward's head, for the Imperial shrugged. “I don't know about everyone, but...”

The Breton's face wrinkled in disgust. “Alright, for the record, you egotistical imbecile, I've met mud crabs more attractive than you. You're a whiny, simpering little boy, who wets himself whenever danger presents itself, and goes running to your servant to get you out of binds. I don't know about your interests, but, to normal people, there is absolutely nothing enticing about that!”

Edward had been rolling his eyes all during this speech. “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he shook his head.

Their conversation had come to this milestone of Edwardian thought when a sudden whoosh sounded behind the Imperial. Both men started, and their eyes at once fell on the cooking pot over the fire. The wooden stirring utensil Edward had been using was ablaze, as were the contents of the pan itself – indeed, giant, leaping flames shot forth over what the men had intended to make their dinner.

In unison, the onlookers loosed shrill screams of fright.

“Quick – put it out!” Maric directed.

“My eatables!” Edward bemoaned.

“Get going, you dummy!” the Breton shouted.

Edward made not a move, however, as he gazed on in stupefied terror while the flames began to climb and billow out of the pan. When they reached a high peak over the fire, the sight finally elicited a response from the Imperial – a high-pitched yelp. “Stop! Ahh! Help!” he screamed. His eyes roamed the campsite for something – anything – with which to put the flames out; at last his gaze lighted on the heavy towel he used to wrap around the handle of the pan in order to move it without burning himself. Seizing this, he began to frantically wave it at the flames.

“Don't!” Maric called. “You're fanning them!”

But the Imperial hardly heard his companion's words, for he was busily, desperately, trying to extinguish the fire in this manner. Alas, but his best efforts at sending blasts of air toward the flame had rather the opposite effect than he intended, and the fire soon began to enjoy its existence with renewed vigor.

What had been mild fear of the flame, coupled with great annoyance at the loss of his dinner, began to morph in the Imperial into a full blown panic. By this point, he was all but deaf to the shouted advice of his companion – even the threats, in fact. His senses were consumed by the horror of the rebellious conflagration.

When, while fanning his instrument of fire suppression too near the flame, it suddenly sprang alight, Edward's reason was truly splintered. He found himself now fully overwhelmed by blind panic.

Casting the rag at the blazing pan with a shriek, the Imperial recoiled, shrieked again as the flame engulfed the fabric, and then turned to run.

The lazy and unjust man unjustly spurns justice
While lazily seeking out ways to laze about listlessly
So that, in malicious malevolence, he may malinger,
To malign the mischievous and misunderstood alike
While insolently basking in insipid indolence.
-- From the Philosophy of Life, attributed to the ancient sages





Chapter Seventy-Eight

Unluckily for Edward, his retreat was halted – or, at least, momentarily delayed – by the interference of the insufferable Breton – who, seeing Edward's bungling, had risen to aid the fire fighting efforts.

Though his intentions had been good – or, at least wise enough to take self preservation into account – Maric's decision to, in spite of his injuries, come to the Imperial's assistance was ill-timed. For, as Edward careened into him, he fell backwards, and his hastily bandaged wounds began to bleed and ache anew.

A multitude of curses escaped the Breton's lips, but Edward, stumbling over the other man's prostrate body, took no heed. He hardly noticed as his heels dug into Maric's stomach and torso, or his boots grazed the Breton's head; he was bent only on escaping the growing, incorrigible conflagration behind him.

Bursting from their campground, he set his footsteps toward the river. This was not from any design or thought that this path should prove the safest, in the event of a forest fire; indeed, it was only the merest chance that directed his feet in this manner, for it happened quite by accident that he was headed thusly as he fled camp...and so he continued in that manner after he was free of the camp.

Fortunately for the Imperial – else, he may well have vanished into the wilderness, driven beyond the reaches of rescue by sheer panic – his valet, carrying a full kettle of water, was at the same time headed toward him, and away from the river.

Though, due to his heightened sense of panic, Edward could not stop in time to avoid colliding with his manservant, the impact and, especially, the dose of cool river water applied liberally to his torso that said impact afforded, roused him to a state of some sensibility.

“Fire!” he gasped. “Pan!...Dinner!...Fire!”

The valet seemed at first confused, but, at the conclusion of this disjointed explanation of sorts, an understanding expression crossed his face. “Than pan caught on fire?”

Edward managed a fearful gurgle of acquiescence, eying the distant shore as he did so.

His servant apparently missed the indicators that his master was about to flee, for, hoisting Edward to his feet, he declared, “Good that you got me, sir – let's go!”

The valet hardly seemed to notice the protests of his master as he dragged Edward toward the conflagration; however, as they rounded the rocks that concealed their campsite and burst onto the scene, his grasp loosened.

The Imperial, rather than fleeing, fell to whimpering and shaking in place at the sight of the conflagration. The fire once contained in a pan had now engulfed most of their camping supplies, and filled the area with smoke and flame.

Amidst this stood Claude Maric, who, bedroll in hand, hobbling from one patch of flame to the next, was hard at work smothering the fire.

“Quick!” the valet called. “Sir, fetch water!”

Edward, however, was still frozen in place by fear, so could only watch as his valet and his hated rival battled the flames.

As the gnat does things befitting a gnat,
And the bat does things befitting a bat,
While the rat does things befitting a rat,
So too does the cat do things befitting a cat.
-- From the Pontifications of the Prince of Pontificators, collected works of a sage of the first age

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Between Maric smothering the flame as well as he could, and the valet's impressive wielding of ice spells to rob the fire of its heat, and, thusly, flame, the conflagration had, finally, been banished to the camp fire.

Maric and the valet stood covered in soot and sweat, and panting heavily; but Edward remained where he had stood throughout the entire extinguishing process, yet shaking. “That...was close...” he managed in a half strangled way.

His servant nodded. “Yes sir. Thanks to a good team effort, though, we were able to beat it.”

“Team effort?” Maric hissed between choking gasps. “That spineless coward didn't do a damned thing!'

“Edward?” the valet repeated, blinking in surprise at the accusation. “Of course he did – he came and fetched me, and then got buckets of water.”

Maric stared at the valet as though he were daft. “He didn't 'fetch you', you idiot – he ran away. And he wasn't getting water, either; he was standing there, right where you left him – right where you see him now – whimpering like a coward.”

The valet frowned at Maric, but then, his eyes resting on Edward's current location, frowned at his friend. “Surely...I mean...you were helping us, weren't you, sir?”

“Of course!” Edward snapped, though the crimson that peaked through the soot-covering of his cheeks rather put the lie to the adamant nature of his tone.

“You see?” his valet responded triumphantly.

At the same time, Maric shot back, “Liar! I saw you – you didn't budge from that spot!”

Edward scoffed. “You don't actually expect us to believe you can fight fires and obsessively stalk someone, do you? Or are you admitting that you did nothing while we worked?!”

Rage covered the Breton's features, and he thundered, “Miserable coward! You threw the towel onto the fire, and then ran off as it lit! When he-” This was said with a jerking motion of his thumb at the valet. “Brought you back, you didn't move – except to shake!”

The valet cleared his throat. “Maric, are you really saying that you saw Edward the whole time? And that you're sure he didn't move?”

“Yes! Well, not the whole time – but look, he's in exactly the same spot!”

“Why wouldn't I have noticed, though,” the valet persisted, “if he was just standing there?”

“Did you see him actually doing anything? Other than standing there, I mean?!”

“Of course. Well, I'm sure...I mean, I can't specifically remember it, but I wasn't paying attention, either...”

“Well I was!” the Breton thundered. “After his bumbling and running off to leave me to burn to death, I can assure you that I was.”

“Ridiculous,” Edward snorted. “Your attempts at blackening my name are laughable. No one in their right mind would believe anything so utterly absurd!”

Alas for Edward, however, someone very much in his right mind did believe Claude Maric, for the valet, his face coloring with suspicion, asked, “In that case, sir, where is the bucket?”

“Bucket?”

“Yes, the bucket you used.”

“I...used that kettle you were using,” the Imperial lied.

“Well then...where is it, sir?”

Edward glanced down at his hands, starting, “Right...” He trailed off, however, as he noted the empty nature of those hands. “Well, where I...dropped it when I saw that the fire was out. Darned thing was awfully heavy!”

“And where is that, sir?”

Edward's eyes flashed. “How dare you question me, servant?! It's over....” He trailed off again, his eyes roaming the charred campsite for some evidence of the wayward ironware. It was nowhere to be found, however. “Well, right...right...”

“Yes?”

“Right where I dropped it, that's where!”

Maric laughed out loud. “Ho boy!” he snickered, his eyes dancing with delight. “Liar, liar, flabby-butt pants on fire!”

Edward glared daggers at the Breton, while simultaneously reaching toward his rear, as if to confirm that the pants he wore did not, in fact, make his bottom look flabby.

Ignoring both men, the valet persisted, “Where is the kettle, sir?”

Edward, his senses now more fully returned, and wholly devoted to his defense, was ready for this question. “How dare you ask me that?” he demanded. “Not only once to question me, your master, but again and again?! How dare the servant question the master, or cast doubt on his honest, trustworthy, respectable word?!”

Instead of the cringing apologies that Edward had hoped this response would elicit, however, the valet resolutely answered, “I would never presume to do such a thing, sir. I simply need to know where the kettle is so that I can fetch more water to heat before treating Claude's injuries.”

“Haha!” Maric shouted gleefully. “Caught you again! Liar, liar, my how your situation grows dire...”

Edward flushed deeply in the face of this request that was ostensibly calm and reasonable, yet at the same time a pointed accusation. “It's...I...”

“Yes?”

“On the...river bank...somewhere, I think,” he responded at last. That was, to the best of his reckoning, where it had been left after his and his servant's collision.

“I'll go get it, then, sir.”

Edward raced after his servant, praying to all the gods he could remember that the other man had forgotten where it had been dropped. And, chortling all the while, Maric hobbled after the pair.

Of the three, only one was was not disappointed as they broke onto the scene. The kettle lay precisely where it had been dropped, and the sand yet held the imprints made by the two men as they fell as a sort of evidence of their collision.

A patch of wet sand leaking from the mouth of the kettle, surrounded by two sets of footprints leading toward the campfire, were as sure a giveaway as anything that Edward's tale was naught but lies.

“Liar, liar,” Maric marveled. “Out of the pan and into the fire!”

Claude, Claude, Claude - *shakes head* It took you that long to figure that out about our Edward?

I'd have to quote every single bit of chapter 77 !!! I nearly choked to death laughing !!! Great Chapters, all - but 77 is in a league of its own !!! Awesome Write !!!

haute ecole rider and mALX: lol, thanks for the comments. It was a lot of fun writing the dialogue between those two (Edward and Maric)

Beware, to the man who would hire a servant
Such a course is fraught with dangers aplenty
Fostering dependence through subterfuge and perfidy
The servant will bend his master until he breaks him.
-- From the chapter “The Worst Servant”, in A Nobleman's Musings on the Serving Class



Chapter Eighty

After disinfecting the bandages and thoroughly cleaning Maric's injuries, the valet had cast his best healing spells, and wrapped what he could not heal. “Sorry, Maric,” he explained. “I was never much of a caster. You're going to need a real healer to take a look at those. But this should at least stave off infection.”

Maric grunted. The procedure had been painful, but – in Edward's presence as he was – he had determinedly braved the pain without as much as a peep of protest.

“I'm not sure that I have anything for pain,” the valet was was saying. “At least, not left.” He motioned to the fire-devastated campsite about them.

Maric shrugged this off nonchalantly, though he spoke through clenched teeth when he said, “It's of little accord.”

The other man nodded, but seemed about as convinced as the Breton by these words.

Edward, meanwhile, was sitting across the campfire from his servant and the treasure hunter, glaring into the flames. He had been caught in a lie, and shown to be a coward, all in one fell swoop, and his mood reflected the event. He was most seriously displeased – and that in his better moments.

“Servant!” he called at length, in acerbic and petulant tones, all at once. “I want my dinner!”

The valet glanced up at this summoning and grimaced. “Yes sir. One moment, sir.”

“No! Not 'one moment', you bloody servant – now, right this instant!”

The other man's grimace deepened. “Yes sir. Of course sir.”

Maric shook his head. “I don't know why you put up with that lout,” he commented. “He must pay an awfully lot?”

The valet's expression was indication enough to the false nature of such speculation.

“Well, why not let him fend for himself then? There are plenty of better opportunities out there for someone with your skills. People who will pay well, cut you an even share of the profits when they go treasure hunting, and not stomp their feet when they get annoyed.”

“Oh?”

Maric nodded. “That's right,” he said. “Now that Umbaccano's dead, I'm probably going to have to strike out on my own as a treasure hunter. I could use a servant like you, whose skills come in handy in a tight spot like back at Cadlew; and I wouldn't mind having someone to take care of the horses and the food and all the rest too.” He shrugged. “What say you? A fair cut – fifty percent of everything we make off with? We could loot all the ruins around here; who knows what we'd find!”

The valet shook his head. “Sorry, Maric,” he replied. “I already have a job.”

The Breton frowned at him. “Yeah...but it's somewhere on par with a city outhouse sanitizer. And the pay is probably worse!”

“That's not true,” the valet shook his head. “I enjoy my job.”

“Dinner!” Edward screamed, interrupting the other men's conversation. “I want my food now!”

“Most of the time,” the valet qualified his statement with a sigh.

Maric said naught, but shook his head vexedly as the other man walked away. Now that he was left to fend for himself, and his band of treasure hunters had betrayed or abandoned him as a coward, he needed to figure out some means of supporting himself – and staying alive while doing so. This sap, Norvayne, seemed just the thing...except that the man was too darned stubborn. Even for a cut of fifty percent, the fool had turned down his generosity. Maric scowled at the other man's insolence. He had offered him the same type of job as he currently had – save that he'd be working in the employ of a man a million times Edward's superior, and making quite a bit more septims out of it too. “Servants!” he thought with distaste. “What a wayward breed of people!”

A wise man's conversation,
Is wealth greater than finest pearls.

And wisdom shared by such a man,
A greater treasure than the riches of the Empire.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Eighty-One

Edward had refused to enter the “den of Barbarians” – Bravil – as they neared, and so was seated outside the stable on a large, damp rock by an old signpost, waiting for his servant to return. The wayward lackey had insisted on accompanying Maric into the town and seeing him to a healer's shop, so the unfortunate master found himself abandoned to the damp and dreary Nibenay Valley.

He was, at the moment, contemplating that only the basest savages could survive in such a dank, mosquito infested region when he noted a shabbily dressed, red-faced Breton approaching. He grimaced to himself at the sight of the creature – the precise type of ill-fated ne'erdowell that he had just been imagining.

“Top of the morning to you, sir!”

Edward scowled at the other man. It hadn't been morning for hours now.

“If you are looking to buy a horse, go inside and talk to Isabeau.”

The Imperial mumbled some insincere thanks for this tidbit of useless information, and turned his scowl to the walls of Bravil. The other man, however, seemed not to understand the import of this dismissive gesture, for he remained standing in place. Edward determinedly avoided eye contact with him.

For several minutes, Breton and Imperial remained in this fashion, the one seated and glaring at the walls of the nearby town, and the other standing and staring rather absently at nothing whatever. At last, however, the red-faced man spoke. “My name is Antoine,” he said.

Edward snorted. “I'm sorry to hear that,” he muttered ill-humoredly.

“Antoine Branck,” the other man continued. “That's my full name.”

The Imperial turned a supercilious sneer in the Breton's direction, and then returned his gaze to the walls of the castle.

“I work here,” the Breton continued. “I take care of the horses. We have lots of horses here. Nice ones. Say, if you're looking to buy a horse, you should go inside and talk to Isabeau.”

Edward's glare was fixed now on the talkative Breton.

“I can't sell horses, you know. Isabeau won't let me. They're her horses, that's why. I just tend them. She pays me to tend them. That's my job, you see.”

Edward's forehead was creased deeply as he stared furiously at the other man. “What makes you think I give a rat's behind?!”

Antoine shivered. “Don't mention them!” he replied. “Not rats. The horses hate rats. And Isabeau hates what the horses hate. And so do I. So we all hate rats.”

An eyebrow raised, Edward commented, “Yes, as fascinating as that was, would you mind shoving off? I'm trying to enjoy the scenery...well, enjoy is too generous a term, but-”

The Imperial was, however, cut short as the burly Breton pushed him from his makeshift seat. After landing face first in the dirt, Edward rose, sputtering with rage. “How dare you push me?!” he demanded of the blank-faced Breton.

“You told me to, sir,” Antoine replied. “You asked me to shove you off of that-”

“Not shove me off,” Edward snapped. “Just plain old shove off. As in, get lost. Go away. Go drown yourself. Jump of a bridge. Go hang yourself. Take a flying leap. Fly a kite.”

“All at the same time, sir?” the Breton asked perplexedly.

“For all I care, go ahead! Just leave me alone!”

“I don't think that's possible, sir,” Antoine replied dejectedly. “A man can't hang himself while he's flying a kite...unless he were to get wrapped up in the string, I suppose. But he wouldn't be able to throw himself off a bridge while he was doing it...at least, he could have leaped from the bridge – and that would be a flying leap, I guess, since the kite is flying and he is being hung from the kite. But the drowning and getting lost I just can't reckon in anywheres.”

Edward stared at the other man, an eyebrow raised.

“Unless...the kite wasn't strong enough to keep you in the air after you jumped from the bridge so you ended up in the water underneath...and you didn't know where that was, so I suppose you could be lost – while taking a flying leap off a bridge while hanging yourself from the kite you're flying.” This was finished with a self-congratulatory smile. “I see what you're saying, sir. It all makes sense now.”

“Oh, good...” Edward managed. “But...umm...shouldn't you be tending the horses or something?”

“Oh yes,” the Breton nodded resolutely. “That's my job. What Isabeau pays me for. She's my boss, you know. She owns this place, the Bay Roan Stables. Say, if you're looking to buy a horse, you should go inside and talk to her.”

Antoine reminds me of some people I know (or once knew). Honestly, there are people just like that IRL! Sigh!

And Norvayne refused Maric's offer? I can't decide if his loyalty to someone of Edward's caliber (what caliber?? a .22?? More like a BB!) is admirable or just plain stupid. I guess I'll have to wait and see!

SPEW !!! (CHOKE ... GASP ... ) BWAAAHAAAA!!!! ANTOINE !!!! Oogah, my stomach hurts from laughing so hard !!!!

Antoine was hilarious - he stole the show from Edward !!!! OMG, he has to travel with them, ROFL !!!

haute ecole rider: lol, I'm not sure myself (re Norvayne's loyalty/stupidity). As far as Maric is concerned, he knows that he's untrustworthy and goes back on his word. Though it's likely -- out of necessity -- that Maric wouldn't cheat him (he needs someone to babysit him on his missions ), it would only be because there's no advantage in doing so. Of course, one could say the same about Edward...but the valet will never be able to see that through his loyalty/stupidity, lol. Thanks for posting!
mALX: Glad you enjoyed Antoine! I'm pretty sure even the valet's good humor would get worn down after awhile with that great conversationalist. However, I'm pretty sure that Antoine will make a comeback, if not in this story, then in Edward: an Imperial's Second Story (yes, I know, it's pretty sad that I've already thought up a part two when I am nowhere near done. ).

Nothing like a smile,
When hearts are laid low,
To cheer the weary of spirit
And raise the depressed of soul.
-- An excerpt from a piece translated in the scholarly work “Writings of Old, Dead People”

Chapter Eighty-Two

Edward stomped into the shabby wooden hut, slamming the old place's rickety door behind him as he entered.

“Hullo there!” a cheery female voice assailed the Imperial's ears.

Searching for the source of such an infuriatingly happy noise, Edward glared at a rather plain Breton woman. She was dressed shabbily, as the man outside had been, but seemed a little younger than he.

“This is the Bay Roan Stables,” she continued. “Are you interested in a horse?”

“Of course I'm not interested in a horse, you damned foolish wench!” Edward snapped.

The woman blinked at him. “Then...what are you doing here, sir?”

“I'm just trying to escape that blithering idiot you have out there, the one who calls himself Anthony or something.”

“Antoine, you mean?”

“Whatever.”

The woman glared at him. “It's a significant 'whatever', sir.” This last part was said with measured distaste. “One is the man's name, and the other is something else entirely.”

Edward stared daggers at her. “Listen, lady,” he responded. “I don't care what his name is – Anthony, Antonio, Antonietta...whatever. I just want to escape from him! And if that means coming in here...” He broke off tho shiver at the sight of the green moss that covered the moist wooden walls. “Even if that means coming into this unsanitary little shack,” he amended his statement, “I will gladly do it.”

Her eyes flashing fire, the woman spoke in a crisp, unflinching way, “This is the Bay Roan Stables.”

Edward groaned. “Ye gods...it must be some sort of Breton ailment of the brain or something...”

“And unless you're interested in a horse -”

“I already told you I'm not!”

“I'm going to have to ask you to leave!”

Edward blinked at her. “Leave?” he demanded. “When there's that drooling lunatic outside, waiting to assail me with his babble, the minute I step foot outside this door?”

“Now!” she demanded. “Or I'll call the Guard!”

“The guards? Look here, wench, don't you threaten me! I'm liable to have the Guard on you, for keeping a dangerous animal outside without -”

Her face contorting with fury, the Breton screamed, “Guard! Guard, help!”

Edward blinked. “Hey!” he called. “Stop that!” The last thing he needed was another prison record – and he had no doubt that, in a little backwater town like this, they would unhesitatingly take the flawed testimony of one of their own inbred primitives over the honest word of a cultured stranger.

“Guard!” she persisted. “Come quickly! This man will not leave!”

“Stop!” Edward protested, glancing about helplessly as the woman continued to yell. On the one hand, he couldn't force himself to go out there, where that blabbering Breton was; but, on the other, he couldn't allow this other Breton to continue...well, blabbering. “Stop it I say!” he repeated.

“Guards!”

“Stop, or I'll be forced to stop you!” he warned.

An even more fixed expression crossed the woman's face, and, in tones louder yet, she called out, “Guards! This man is threatening me!”

This was too much for Edward, who lunged for her. Pressing his hand against her mouth, he insisted, “Shut up, will you? All I want to do is wait until-AHHH!” He broke off in wailing at this point as the Breton's knee impacted sharply with his lower body, and, at the same time, her teeth sank into his hand. “Stop that! Owwww! Help! Help!” Edward called.

At that moment, the door burst open, and the Breton Edward had met earlier, Antoine Branck, entered. For a moment he glanced about dully, but, his gaze lighting upon the pair, a savage gleam lit them. “Sister!” he called. “I'm coming!”

The next thing Edward knew, a very broad fist had collided with great force and speed with the side of his head; and then the world went dark.

Verily, I say unto you, my children of Dawn....ahhh, the Dawn – it's acomin' as sure as the sun rises in the west. Wait, east. But'cha'll know what I mean! Light is breaking, breakin' like molten lead on this sinful hellhole of a world we call home!

-- Partial transcription of a sermon by Mankar Camoran

Chapter Eighty-Three

When Edward came to, he was outside the Bay Roan Stables. His hands were bound, and Antoine Branck was standing guard, glaring all the while at him.

The Imperial groaned to himself. This was too much being bound and held captive in a short period of time. “Look here,” he demanded in tones as civil as he could manage. “You've no business holding me!”

“Quiet, you!” the Breton returned. “No one treats my sister like that without paying the consequences.”

“Sister?” Edward repeated. Then, light dawning on marble as it were, he understood. “Ohh, you mean that horse-faced Breton you work for?”

A large fist hovered threateningly over the Imperial's head, and he hastened to apologize, amongst ample whimpering. “I meant that lovely lady who sells the horses,” he corrected himself.

“Yes,” Antoine answered. “Isabeau. She's my sister. She owns this place. I work for her. I tend the horses here.”

“I know!” Edward snapped. “You told me. A dozen times already, at least!”

Antoine's glare returned. “You wait, Mister. The Guard'll be here soon, and you'll get what's coming to you then.”

“The Guard?” Edward repeated, his cheeks going pale.

“That's right. Isabeau is gone to get them. And when she gets back from getting the Guard, you'll get what you should have got the instant you got the idea of laying hands on my sister!”

Edward stared at the other man, an eyebrow raised. “Yes, I think I get that...” he declared superciliously, “however, I was not the one at fault. Your sister assaulted me.”

“She did not!” the Breton protested. “Isabeau wouldn't harm a fly.”

“She most certainly did, you dolt!” Edward fumed. “Look! Here, see the teeth marks on my hand? And she kneed me in my...manly parts.”

The Breton stared at Edward, an eyebrow raised in disgust. “There is no way I'm looking at your...manly parts,” he declared with a sniff.

The Imperial flushed. “I wasn't asking you to look at them!” he hastened to assure the other man. “In fact, you had better not think of it! I was talking about my hand!”

Antoine stared suspiciously at him. “That's not what you said...”

“Yes it was!” Edward snapped. “Yes it was!”

“Hmm...”

“Excuse me,” a voice sounded behind the two men. “But...what exactly is going on here?”

The Imperial started at the sound, his eyes darting for the speaker, who was none other than his manservant. “This lout and his sister attacked me!” he explained. “And now they're trying to have me arrested on trumped up charges.”

“This knave attacked my sister,” the Breton countered. “And I'm holding him here until the Guard arrives. You're not the Guard, are you?”

“No,” the valet answered slowly. “I'm not the guard...but...sir, surely this must be a mistake! My friend would never harm a lady!”

“He did so, sir. I saw it with my own eyes!”

“I did not!” Edward protested. “This idiot broke in as his sister was savaging me, and he assumed that I was the one attacking her – even though I was the only one who took any injury during the conflict!”

“That's a bold-faced lie!” the Breton roared, smacking Edward upside the head. “Don't you talk about my sister like that!”

The valet cleared his throat. “Sir, please!” he protested.

“What? No one gets to lie about my sister!”

“No, of course not...but...well, first of all, who are you? And who is your sister?”

Edward groaned as Antoine explained, “My name is Antoine. Antoine Branck. I tend the horses. That's my job. This place is the Bay Roan Stables. My sister owns it. They're her horses. I work here with the horses, for my sister. She's the one who sells horses. I would tell you to go inside and talk to her, if you're interested in buying a horse, but you can't do that now. Because she's not inside. She's getting a guard to arrest this lout. But she'll be back. Then you can go in and talk to her. If you're interested in a horse, of course.”

“I see,” the valet nodded. “And how did this...misunderstanding...with my friend happen?”

“He went inside to buy a horse; and the next thing I know, I hear Isabeau screaming. I comes running, and there is he, with his hand on her mouth. So I set upon him – and he's lucky he's still drawing breath, I tell you that!”

“Oh, yes, quite,” the valet hastened to agree.

“No one treats a lady like that – especially not my sister!”

“No, no indeed. It was very...caddish behavior.”

“Hey!” Edward protested. “I was just trying to stop the stupid woman from screaming at me. I wasn't trying to hurt her!”

“Still,” the valet was continuing, “I'm not sure that it's worth bringing the Guard into...”

“It certainly is!” Antoine insisted.

“Really?” the valet asked. “I mean, no one was hurt....”

“I was!” Edward protested. “I was bit and kneed and pounded about!”

“Well, no one but Edward,” the valet continued. “Right?”

“Yes,” the other man nodded slowly. “But he deserved it!”

Edward began to protest heartily, but he was ignored by the others. “Oh, absolutely...still, hard to convince a judge that he was the villain when you and your sister – the two of you – teamed up to beat him senseless, I would think.”

The Breton shifted his weight nervously. “Well, I...that is...”

“Look here, Antoine,” the valet continued, “we're both intelligent men. We can both agree that what you and your sister did was perfectly reasonable under the circumstances. We both know that, even if the Guard does arrest him, he'll probably have to pay some measly fine and get off with hardly a delay or a dent in his pocket.” Antoine nodded glumly while Edward continued his protestations. “Surely we can think of a better solution than that.”

The Breton's forehead pursed in thought for a moment, but then his eyes lit up. “You want to kill him?” he suggested.

“No!” came the hurried response. A short, calmer laugh, and a congenial brush of the hand followed. “No, no, my good chap, nothing so drastic. What good would it do you – or your sister – if he ended up dead? And, I know this guy...he's faced death so many times that he's not even fazed by it anymore.” Edward's chalk white face rather put the lie to that assertion, but his servant bravely ventured on. “But you know what does bother him?”

The Breton shook his head.

“Money.”

“Money?”

“That's right...he's a greedy one, is Master Edward. I think if we were to agree to a settlement outside of the law...that would be the best way to punish him.”

Antoine nodded slowly. “That makes sense,” he said. “What sort of settlement?”

“Oh, I don't know,” the valet hesitated. “How about...one thousand gold septims?”

Edward's eyes bulged at the figure, before he found himself falling into a dead faint at the prospect of – broke as he was – owing this savage a fortune's worth of gold.

Assaulting our dear Isabeau? Edward certainly asked for it! You go, girl!

And good on Antoine for not wasting time blabbering when he burst in the shack!

Yet Norvayne shows his smooth talkin' that just leaves me shaking my head. It's amazing how he can smooth things over on Edward's behalf and yet let the circumstances pound Edward into petulant submission! Getting out of impending arrest by settling for an exorbitant sum of one thousand septims!

And Rachel, where do you find the inspiration for the little tidbits you always lead each chapter off with? I got a really huge kick out of this one:
Typical Southern Baptist preachin' style! Genius! Not that there's anything wrong with Southern Baptists.

ROFL !!! Edward...has...manly parts? SPEW !!!!





All this lacked was Isabeau tearing her blouse (accidentally or otherwise) - ROFL !!! I am loving these new chapters !!! Awesome Write !!!

haute ecole rider: haha, glad you enjoyed it! As for the price the valet paid, that will be explained soon. As for the inspiration...when I was a teenager, I had the * ahem * good fortune of my family attending a southern baptist church for a few years. When I started writing Mankar's lines, I drew off of that experience...I actually wondered at first if I was overdoing it...and then I attended the baptism ceremony for one of my brothers (he's still a southern baptist, and is marrying into the church this June)...nope, not a bit of it, LOL. Don't get me wrong, nothing against southern baptists as people...the whole fire-and-brimstone and "merciful father in heaven who wants his beloved children who don't obey his every dictate according to the pastor tortured for all eternity" thing just isn't my cup of tea, lol. Neither is being told that my non-southern baptist ancestors/family/friends are all going to/currently in hell (with the implied threat that, unless I tow the line and convert, I am as well). But I digress. Anyhow, that was the source of inspiration...the very bored "yeah, yeah, yeah" chanting in the game when you enter the Mythic Dawn lair just seemed so anti-climatic, I figured Cameron needed some real "fire" in his speech.
mALX: LOL! Now Edward finally gets a taste of his constant assumptions about people's interest in him.

Good bye, good bye,
Parting is such sweet sorrow...
-- From The Gentleman's Lament of Gold Spent

Chapter Eighty-Four

Edward awoke from his faint to find himself precariously propped up in a saddle and traveling at a fair speed. “Wha-?!” he demanded, starting to consciousness so suddenly that he nearly lost his balance.

“Ahh, sir!” he heard his valet greet. “Glad to see you're awake!”

Edward glared in the direction of that voice. He could vaguely remember his companion's insults and affronts, but he was keenly aware of some wrong the other man had done him...though the exact nature of it slipped his mind at the moment.

“Sorry to set out like that, sir,” his companion continued. “With you unconscious, and everything, I mean. But I wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible – in case that Branck fellow changed his mind, or his sister returned with a guard.”

The Imperial blinked as his memories began to fall into place. “Wait...that stupid Breton...you mean...”

“Antoine, sir? That's right. He agreed to let you go – once I paid him, of course, and I-”

Edward loosed a yelp. That was it – the fool of a servant had promised one thousand septims for his freedom, hadn't he? “A...thousand...septims!” he managed to choke out.

“Yes sir,” the valet nodded. “It was a steep price, but we were just lucky he accepted it. He was pretty convinced that your intentions were...well, less than honorable toward his sister.”

Edward recoiled in disgust. “That hideous Breton horse?!” he gasped.

“I think,” the other man continued, ignoring his statement altogether, “that it was only the fact that he wasn't convinced that they'd be able to get a conviction. And then, when you passed out like that at the mention of the septims...I think you sealed the deal, sir.” He frowned. “Speaking of which...why did you pass out, sir?”

Edward gaped at him. “One...thousand...gold...septims!” he managed in way of reply.

His companion frowned. “You mean...it really was the money that caused you to go out like that?”

“Of course!”

“Oh...I assumed you must have been woozy from your fight, or something.”

Edward glared at him. “You fool! You've just laid an enormous debt on my head! How do you think I'll ever be able to pay all that off?!”

“Sir?”

“Not that I'd pay that repulsive reprobate anyway,” the Imperial continued. “But he's probably expecting me to...and if I don't, he might file a grievance...for that sum, he may well take it all the way to the Imperial City!”

“What, you mean the thousand septims, sir?”

“Of course, idiot! What else?”

“Oh, no worries about that,” the valet shook his head. “I took care of it already.”

“You...?!” Edward demanded, both furious that his valet could carry – much less part with – that much pocket change at any given time, and relieved beyond words that the price would not be exacted of him.

“That's right, sir,” the other man nodded, “with the thousand septims Maric returned.”

The Imperial's jaw dropped again. “You...don't...mean...”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you that, didn't I sir?”

A strangled laugh escaped Edward's throat. “Yes, you just might have overlooked that tiny detail!”

“Well, it wasn't the sort of thing to discuss while you were tied up anyway,” his valet shrugged. “But, yes, before I left Maric at the healer, I talked him into returning your money.”

Edward blinked at the idea. It seemed improbable – nay, impossible – that anyone could reason with the obtuse Breton.

“Well...I threatened him, actually,” his companion admitted with another shrug. “But he coughed up what he owed in the end.”

Licking his lips greedily, Edward positively cackled with delight.

“Sir?” the other man asked, a blank expression crossing his face.

“Then...that means...I still have a thousand septims!” Edward mused, in way of explanation for his sudden change of demeanor.

“Another thousand?” the valet asked, his forehead creased. “How so, sir?”

“You wasted a thousand,” Edward explained, “but Maric stole two thousand!”

“Ohhhh, I see what you mean,” his companion nodded. “But I didn't make him return the full purse.”

The Imperial's jaw dropped anew. “What?!”

“Well, sir, he had spent a lot of it already before setting out for Nenalata...”

“How much?!”

“A hundred or two septims...”

“And the rest?!”

The valet shrugged. “His wounds were pretty bad, sir. He's going to need a good healer, and he'll have to be able to afford a few months of bed rest. I thought it only right...”

Edward's eyes flickered, and he felt himself falling out of the saddle, into a dead faint.

Be sure your sins will find you out –
So see to it that you always have a handy lie about!
-- Excerpt from the chapter “On Lying”, in The Young Nobleman's Guide to Success in Society

Chapter Eighty-Five

When Edward roused from this new faint, he found himself in a little glade some ways off the road with his valet and the two horses.

“Are you alright, sir?” the other man was asking.

Edward groaned piteously.

“What hurts, sir?” the other man asked, his face very perplexed. The Imperial continued to whimper in response, so he prodded, “I can't see any exterior wounds, sir...you need to talk to me. What's hurting you?”

“My purse!” Edward spoke at last.

The valet sighed, raising an eyebrow at him. “Is that all, sir? I thought you had seriously injured yourself!”

“I didn't injure myself,” the Imperial corrected. “It was you who gave away my money like that!”

“I didn't give it away, sir. Maric needed it for his treatment-” Edward interrupted with renewed groaning, but his companion ignored him. “And, as I say, we were lucky that Antoine accepted that payment!”

The Imperial's eyes flashed with fire. “Hold on!” he said. “You told that stupid Breton that I would have got off with a minor fine. Why did you waste all my gold, then?”

“You mean...you would have preferred if they dragged you off to prison, sir?”

“As opposed to losing one thousand gold septims?!” Edward thundered. “Are you daft, man? Do you even need to ask such a question?! Of course I would have!”

His companion frowned at him. “Well...be that as it may, sir, what I said to Branck wasn't strictly true, anyway.” Edward frowned in response. “You see, there's some fellow going around attacking the women in the area...they haven't seen him in a couple of weeks, but he hurt a few of them pretty badly. Killed one.” His brow furrowing, he continued, “I have my suspicions, sir, that it was that Rufio character that you...erm, snuffed out. No one's reported an attack since then. But that, of course, would have been difficult to explain – the Guard would have assumed that you were the culprit of the attacks. And, what with our only defense being murder...that wouldn't have went over very well.”

The Imperial frowned. “But...one thousand septims? Couldn't you have offered him less...like...I donno...fifty?”

“Of course not, sir,” the valet answered. “I didn't want to insult him – because then he might have refused the money just out of spite.”

Edward glared at his companion. “Well then,” he demanded, “why didn't you just kill the fool?! After all, he was holding me illegally, against my will and unjustly!”

“Speaking of that, sir...” the other man started. “What, exactly, happened?”

The Imperial sighed. “That great lummox was following me around spouting off banalities about the horses and his sister – who could pass for one of the animals any day, I can tell you! – and his job and all that. So I went inside to escape the lout.” He sighed again. “When the obtuse woman greeted me, she...mistook...a few things I said.”

“Oh?”

“About her brother and...his intellect,” Edward admitted, hurrying to add, “they were quite witty and amusing statements, of course, all very tasteful...I just forgot that I was speaking to a witless, humorless Breton. Anyway, she started calling the guard....and I threatened to tell the guard that she had a dangerous animal outside without a permit...”

The valet cringed. “You didn't say that about her brother, did you?”

Edward shrugged. “I might have,” he answered. “But...I didn't know the fool was her brother, anyway!” His companion sighed while he pouted. “Anyway, things just sort of...went downhill from there.”

“I see,” the valet nodded. “I'm sorry to hear that. Still...not the end of the world, I suppose. They were no doubt frightened, but the septims should be a decent remuneration.” Edward glared at the other man, who cleared his throat. “Yes, well...umm...we should probably head out now.”

The Imperial begrudgingly nodded his acquiescence, and the two headed for their mounts.

“Oh, sir...by the way....”

“What?”

“About that fire yesterday...”

I waited to reply to make sure you didn't have more chapters up your sleeve.

These two chapters had me laughing out loud! Edward in his shock over the 'loss' of 'his' septims soooo reminded me of my little Italian granny. God bless her soul, but she would have reacted exactly the same way he did!

And Edward's version of events leading up to the 'loss' was just - just - *spluttering helplessly* - priceless!


Care of two horses for one day: Ten drakes
Healing for an ungrateful, shady character: eight hundred septims.
Bribing a mentally challenged but pissed off brother: one thousand septims.
Seeing a memorably annoying character pass out and fall off his horse: Priceless!

Edward falling off the horse in a dead faint ... over Septims he thought were lost anyway ... SPEW !!!! ROFL !!!

Can't blame Edward for being mad that his valet paid the man who robbed the Septims from him to begin with, (half of it for his troubles) though - that might be the incident that gets his Valet put on Edward's "Death Wish List," lol.

haute ecole rider: lol, glad you enjoyed the chapters!! I loved writing Branck...he just sort of happened, lol -- in large part because he and Isabeau say the same things each time you talk to them and I thought...hmm, wouldn't it be fun if they did that in Edward's "real life" too. And then the 1,000 Septims bribe just sort of grew out of that. Thanks for posting!!


mALX: lol, I can't blame him either. The valet, though, is a sucker for someone in hard times. So, to his mind, no matter how much of a blackguard Maric is, he can't just leave him without anything for healing. As far as ending up on Edward's death list, lol, that's a good point -- there is little that means more to Edward the Imperial than money. Glad you liked it!!



One reaction, whatever the cause
To hail the victorious or see off the dead
And when no reason, just because:
They prefer to drink even before they are fed.
-- A Study of the Social Evolution, Customs and Building Practices of the Nordic Tribes, ordered by High Chancellor Cicero




Chapter Eighty-Six

Edward smiled. Fortune had indeed been with him since he and his valet left Bravil in the dust. Their ride to Cheydinhal had been quick and eventless, and his servant had been gullible enough to believe his explanation for the near-forest fire incident.

So it was, while the valet contemplated how a man who was both afraid of the dark and paralyzed by fear of fire could be an adventurer of Edward's caliber, the Imperial smiled coolly and swaggered into his Dark Brotherhood hideout. He was disappointed to see that, aside from M'raaj-Dar and the Dark Guardian, he was all alone; but he remembered what had happened last time he'd entered, so maintained his cool, easy attitude; at least, an attitude that he took to be cool and easy. "Yo, M'raaj-Dar my man, how's it hanging?" he asked.

The cat raised a furry eyebrow, responding only, "Funny that it would be you, talking about hanging...I think of the same thing, every time I hear you..."

Edward blinked, taken aback by this less than friendly response. "Come on, M'raaj-Dar, are you really saying that you hate me so much that you want to hang yourself every time you hear me?"

M'raaj-Dar's already raised eyebrow stood a good inch higher, and he commented dryly, "Myself? Guess again, brainy."

Edward gulped, and decided that he'd rather not carry on a conversation with the ornery Khajiit. Keeping his distance, he circled the cat to reach the Brotherhood quarters. Pushing against the doors with a grunt, he thought, "Great divines, haven't these people ever heard of oiling the darned hinges?!" They opened slowly, and only with much effort. Entering at last, and panting heavily as he did so, he shook himself to loosen his cramped muscles. He stepped inside, only to be greeted by several surprised stares, and a hiss of disgust from Antionetta.

"Oblivion!" he thought, attempting to resume the manner with which he'd entered the hideout. "Of course she'd have to see that...I couldn't have problems with some other door...oh no...it would have to be here, and now."

"Edgar!" Vicente greeted, rising from his seat across from Antionetta, where they both sat over a chessboard.

"Edward!" Edward corrected, frowning deeply. He didn't like this Breton; he didn't like the way he always got his name wrong; he didn't like the way he tended to dismiss him; and he certainly didn't like the way he was always hanging around Antionetta.

"Vicente, can't you wait to talk to him?" Antionetta asked, waving her hand in Edward's direction but not bothering to look at him. "We're almost finished with our game!"

Edward blinked, wondering how he should interpret her body language. "Wow," he thought with a touch of joy. "I didn't realize she had such a crush on me that she can't even look at me...I mean, I suspected, but..." Aloud, however, he declared in his most obliging voice and with a broad smile, "Oh, of course -- it can wait!"

But Vicente smiled at Antionetta and declared, "Business before pleasure, my dear." With this, he took her hand, pressed it to his lips, and turned to Edward, who now stood agape. Antionetta, meanwhile, smiled warmly at Vicente, but cast a dark look Edward's way.

"Now," Vicente declared, his manner very businesslike, "what can I do for you?"

"Well, I, umm, came because I, uhh..." Edward started, stumbling over his words. His thoughts were in complete disarray, and he was having little success at reorganizing them. "How dare that snotty little Breton touch her?" he was wondering. "And to kiss her! Him, of all people! I'm surprised she didn't slap him! In fact, if he wasn't my boss, I'd slap him!"

While his thoughts rambled on in this manner, Vicente spoke. "Yes, we heard about your mission. Interesting ruse, pretending to be a madman and all that, I must say -- and a bit risky at that." He shrugged. "But, it worked."

"Yes, it did," Edward said haughtily.

"Good thing you had someone to help you," Vicente offered.

"Save his butt, you mean," Antionetta put in curtly.

Edward blinked, surprised by her tone. "But," he told himself, "I can't blame her...of course she's short tempered, after being treated like that by that presuming, stuffed shirt Breton!" He glared at Vicente. Of late, Bretons seemed to make a habit of getting in his way.

Vicente seemed not to notice his expression. "Well, however that may be, you've earned your reward, and a promotion."

Edward blinked again, this time forgetting his abhorrence of Vicente. "A promotion?" he asked.

"That's right," the other man answered. "Congratulations! You're now a Slayer!"

Edward's blank expression turned into a radiant smile, and he started dancing and chanting, "Yes, yes, yes!" Then, seeing Antionetta's rather disgusted gaze resting on him, he hurried over to her table. "Did you hear? I got promoted!" he exclaimed, plunking into the seat opposite her and knocking the chessboard over with his knees as he did so.

"That's as good a way as any to go, I suppose," she said through clenched teeth as the chess pieces clattered on the floor.

"Huh?" Edward asked, abashed by his clumsiness, as he scrambled to pick up the pieces.

"What Antionetta means," Vicente intervened quickly, "is that that's a nice way to go on your next mission."

"Oh," Edward smiled up at her, "yes, isn't it?"

Can you feel the love in the air?
There, the dreamer dreams up his starry paradise
Do you wonder how the lover will fare?
Alas, his poor heart must pay the fool's price.
-- The Witless Swain, unattributed love poem rumored to have been inspired by a certain Imperial




Chapter Eighty-Seven

“Well,” Edward was telling his valet, “you know how I had been unjustly imprisoned by those nobleman who were aware of my ancestry?”

The other man grimaced almost imperceptibly, but said in a tone free of expression, “I recall you saying something to that effect, sir.”

“Quite so,” Edward nodded. “Well, they knew who I really was…that the Emperor was my father, and all of that…and they know that, with no heirs to the throne, it should, by rights, be mine – which is, of course, why I was thrown into prison.”

“Indeed, sir,” the valet declared, assuming that flat, disinterested tone he used when Edward was lying through his teeth.

“Well, anyway, do you remember the prisoner who was stationed across from me, Valen Dreth?”

“No sir.”

“Well, he was a nasty thing…foul mouthed, cruel, mean…he taunted me the whole time I was in prison…”

“How terrible, sir.”

“Yes, quite,” Edward agreed. “But, it’s payback time…Vicente wants me to kill him.”

The valet’s eyebrows rose. “For taunting you in prison, sir?”

“No, of course not!” Edward snapped. “Although I don’t see why you’d say it with such disbelief…that would be reason enough to warrant the little turd’s death, wouldn’t it?”

The valet coughed discreetly, saying, “If you say so, sir, then I’m sure it is.”

“You’re darned right it is!”

“But what is his crime?” the valet persisted. “That is, his other one.”

Somewhat, though not entirely, placated by this recognition of the wrong he’d been dealt, Edward answered, “Well, turns out the old goat is a murderer as well as a nasty, big mouthed honoured user.”

“But isn’t that why he’s in prison, sir?”

“Yes,” Edward answered. “But he’s not going to be in prison for very long.”

“Oh?”

“Yes…he’s got friends, it seems, who are ‘looking the other way’ and releasing him next month…after only serving two months!”

The valet’s eyebrows rose again. “I see!”

“Well,” Edward smiled, “these good old boys are in for a surprise…Edward the Imperial doesn’t stand by while friends pull strings for their friends, getting them out of prison, saving them from the gallows, freeing them after they’ve killed someone!” His valet shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, but Edward didn’t notice. “No indeed! I’m going to be handing out some final justice.”

“Indeed sir,” came the valet’s slightly ironic tone.

“Yup,” Edward agreed, smiling broadly. “I say, this is a good day, you know that?”

“Is it, sir?”

“Yes indeed! Another mission, and…” Here Edward broke off, blushing a little. “Well, everything.”

His valet frowned thoughtfully. “Everything, sir?”

“Yes, yes,” Edward answered. “The birds are singing, the sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, the world is at peace all over!”

“I take it, then, sir, that you have a lady friend in the Brotherhood?”

Edward turned to the other man, and stared at him in astonishment, his mouth agape. “How on earth did you know?” he demanded.

The faintest hint of a smile appeared on the valet’s lips, but he replied only, “Valet’s intuition, sir.”

“I say, that’s very good!” Edward declared. “And, of course, you’re right. There is a girl…Antionetta Marie…oh, you should see her…beautiful…blonde…absolutely, madly in love with me…”

His valet shot him a quick glance, as if hoping to discern whether or not he was lying. His expression only grew more puzzled, however, and he said, “Are you sure, sir?”

Edward stared at him, dumbfounded and not a little insulted by the question. “What do you mean, ‘am I sure?’ Of course I’m sure! Why, the poor girl is so in love with me that she can barely speak two words to me! She can’t even look me in the eye! And that Vicente – the old pervert’s got his eye on her, it’s plain to see, but she wants nothing to do with him. You should’ve seen how upset she was when I came in while they were playing chess, and then he kissed her hand and left to talk to me; oh, she was furious! And humiliated – she couldn’t even look me in the eye after that, she was so mortified.” Edward sighed. “The poor lamb…if she only knew that I understood, that I saw through that red-eyed, pointy-toothed swine’s schemes.” Edward sighed again.

Meanwhile, his valet was staring at him, open-mouthed. At last, however, he cleared his throat. “Sir…do I understand you rightly when you say that you interrupted this girl – Antionetta – and Vicente from a game, and that Vicente kissed her hand, and after that – after you interrupted and Vicente left – Antionetta was furious, and wouldn’t look at you or talk to you?”

“Yup,” Edward nodded proudly. “I told you…plain as day, isn't it?”

His valet blinked at the statement, sat in amazed silence for a moment, and then ventured, “Well, sir, are you sure that you…well, that you’re interpreting her reaction correctly?”

“Oh yes,” Edward assured him, adding with a knowing smile, “But don’t worry…I haven’t done anything rash…I’m pretending I haven’t noticed yet.” The other man breathed a sigh of relief, but let Edward continue to prattle on. “The way I figure it, no sense rushing this thing…I’m young…I’ve still got to have fun before I think of settling for any one woman, even if she is wild for me…I’ve still got to reap my wild oats and all that!”

“Sow, sir,” the valet corrected.

“Right,” Edward agreed. “Whatever. But you get my drift. And, anyway, it’s damned hard to have a relationship with someone when she’s so carried away by her emotions that she can’t talk to you or look at you, and avoids you whenever possible.”

The other man cleared his voice. “Sir, don’t you think…I mean, are you sure that her reaction earlier was embarrassment rather than, oh, I don’t know…maybe being furious that you interrupted her game and took her away from the man she’s really interested in?”

Edward did a double take, and in so doing nearly fell off of his horse. “Vicente?” he laughed. “Are you mad? That horrible, red-eyed thing, with his pointy teeth and stuffy accent? For heaven’s sakes, man, he looks like a bloody vampire!”

“And are you sure that he’s not?”

Edward stopped laughing and stared at him superciliously. “A vampire? Come now, don’t be absurd! There’s no such thing as vampires….that’s all hogwash and superstition!”

“Oh yes,” his valet agreed. “Vampires, werewolves, zombies, magicians…the whole lot.”

“Not zombies and magicians,” Edward corrected. “Those exist…I know, I’ve met some. The rest are though.”

“Oh, I see…only the creatures that you’ve met exist, and the rest are myth?” the valet asked, a hint of irony in his tone.

“Exactly,” Edward agreed earnestly. “And Vicente might be a nasty old coot, but a vampire he is not, even if he does look like one.”

The valet shook his head, but did not argue the point. “Well, then, what’s to say that she isn’t in love with this fellow who looks like a vampire but isn’t one?”

Edward laughed again. “Come on, who would fall for some weirdo with glowing eyes and pointy teeth?”

His valet sighed. “I have one word for you, sir: Twilight.”

Of noble princes we sings,
All those whose rule we fear
Princes, Lords and Kings
Hopes our praises they hear.
-- Song of the Beggars and Serfs

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Edward had not spoken to his valet in hours. After the other man's impertinent, downright offensive, suggestion, he had had no desire to converse with him. Furthermore, despite his adamant denial of the idea, his valet's words had touched that shred of common sense that he'd always managed to cling onto, and made him ever so slightly uncomfortable, and ever so slightly depressed.

"You know, sir," his valet said at last, "I've been thinking...it might be a good idea to do something else for a while."

"What?" Edward asked.

"Well, you've got over a month to deal with the prisoner before he's released...and then, you could always get him after he's released too."

Edward frowned. "Why do you care when I do it, anyway?"

His valet shrugged, in an entirely unconvincing attempt at nonchalance. "Oh, I don't know...I just thought that maybe it might be a good idea to take a break from your Brotherhood quests."

"Why?" Edward asked, his frown deepening.

"Well, just so that you can...I don't know...broaden your horizons," the other man answered. "You know, see some other things, go other places."

"I don't think you understand," Edward snapped, "just how important my job is! If not for me, all sorts of nefarious characters would be getting away with all sorts of nefarious deeds! I don't have time to go sightseeing!" He paused. "Anyway, I don't really have enough money for a vacation."

His valet shook his head imperceptibly. No matter how much money Edward earned, he never seemed to be able to hang onto it for very long; between tipping pretty waitresses too much in vain attempts to impress them, to being a magnet for clothes with holes in their pockets, he always managed to wind up short on cash. "Well, sir, I know just the place where you might be able to earn yourself a little bit of money, take care of a few bad guys, and see some beautiful country, all at the same time."

Despite himself, Edward perked up. A vacation didn't sound terribly bad, and it might be nice to build his reputation outside of the Brotherhood. "Oh?" he said, attempting a disinterested air -- attempting, and failing miserably.

"Yes...a little town by the seaside, with lots of beautiful scenery and nice people, and just enough trouble to make it profitable for a noble-minded adventurer such as yourself to clean it up."

Edward smiled, almost forgetting his annoyance with his valet entirely. "At least the man recognizes my inane abilities," he thought. "Or is that innate?" He frowned in thought for several moments, but then dismissed the difficulty. He was too excited about a vacation to worry about stupid things like the proper use of language. "Well, what is this little town?"

"Anvil, sir."

Edward frowned again. "Anvil?"

"Have you been there, sir?"

"Well, no," Edward admitted. "But one doesn't have to go somewhere just to know that it's a backwards place. Take Bruma...I knew before I stepped foot in that frigid den of barbarians that it was an arctic hell. And, of course, I was right."

His valet cleared his throat tactfully. "Yes sir, however, Anvil is not a Bruma."

"Yes," Edward agreed, "it's warmer."

The other man sighed. "Sir, Anvil is a hub of culture!" Edward scoffed, but his valet continued anyway. "The sea port brings in people and goods from all lands!"

"Oh joy," Edward remarked. "A bunch of dirty, uncivilized seafarers bringing second class merchandise, probably stolen, in to drive the prices down for quality merchandise made by hard working Imperials!"

His valet's grimace deepened, but he did not directly confront his master's suppositions. Instead, he said, "Well, there are lots of Imperials in Anvil...and they sometimes have problems with some of the sailors and the dock hands...the whole town would be grateful, I'm sure, if a brave adventurer would come into town and clean things up." Seeing that Edward wasn't wholly convinced, he added, "And I'm sure they'd be willing to pay well...very well!"

Edward smiled at this. Yes, he could see himself filling the role his valet described, particularly the part about collecting a handsome reward. "Well," he said slowly. "I suppose I could make a short trip there...it's not like Valen's going anywhere for awhile." He laughed at his own joke, while his valet tried not to sigh audibly. "After all, these people really do need me...and, if I don't answer the call, they'll be left to face the barbarian hordes by themselves."

"Yes sir," his valet returned in his driest tone.

"And I couldn't desert them like that," Edward continued.

"No sir," the valet responded in the same tone.

So it's off to Anvil, huh? And what, pray tell, would Edward find to screw up there? A certain rundown manor in need of renovation? Unwelcome seductresses in need of eviction? Or a bloodbath in a Chapel? I can't wait to see what happens next!

Oh, and this cracked me up: Can you believe how sick I am about the whole vampire/werewolf thing? I'm with Norvayne there!

Twilight!! Anvil, oh dear. I hope at least some of it is still standing when Edward is finished there!

GAAAAH !!! I remember the Edward, Antoinetta part - but never remembered that Edward didn't know Vicente was a vampire !!! I sprayed my coffee everywhere !!! ROFL !!!


This killed me, and I don't remember it from the original either :




SPEW !!!! BWAAAAHAAA !!! ROFL !!!

Thanks for the comments, all! As for the Twilight thing, lol, I hear you...how many teen angst vampire love triangles/conflicts/whatnot do they expect us to suffer through, lol?
Anvil may be standing, but I'm not sure that Edward will be when he's done.
As for Edward not realizing that Vicente is a vampire...that might require taking time to observe and think about what he's observed. And that is all far too tedious for dear Edward.

Plagues and famine, war and devastation
No single disaster, tragedy or travesty of life can compare
To the horrors of the wayward servant
Fiend, miscreant, and irritant his master simply cannot bear.
-- Excerpt from The Trials of a Nobleman, First Edition

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Edward was stiff and sore. He and his valet had been riding for almost a week, and he had lost all of his enthusiasm for this adventure; in fact, if he had not been so stiff and so tired, he might just have strangled his companion for talking him into this hellish nightmare in the first place. As it was, they had been riding through almost nonstop storms, in bone-chilling rain and wind, and at an annoyingly slow pace; and, while the latter issue was Edward's fault, as he insisted on making frequent stops to wring the rain water out of his cloak, he held his valet personally responsible for the other difficulties since this trip had been his idea.

Aside from being sore, he was also very tired, and very, very cranky. He had hardly slept so far, and his nerves were completely on edge. Every noise made him jump -- more so than usual -- and every flash of lightning sent his heart into his mouth, until, at last, he was a nervous wreck. Finally, the walls of the city came into sight. Then, after what seemed an agonizing stretch, they had reached the stables, left their mounts, and were heading toward the gate.

Edward was shaking with exhaustion and cold, but his valet seemed to be in high spirits -- a fact that served only to dampen Edward's own spirits further. "You know, sir," the valet was saying, "one of the reasons I was particularly anxious for us to head down here -- aside from it being just the adventure you need, of course -- is that there's a mysterious person who lives here; the folks around these parts just call him 'stranger'. There's something strange about that..."

"Oh, no?" Edward asked sarcastically. "I supposed they call him 'stranger' because there's nothing strange about him at all."

An eyebrow creeping up his forehead, the other man asked, "Is everything alright, sir?"

"No!" Edward shot back. "Everything is not alright! I'm freezing cold, I'm exhausted, I really have no business being here, and you're still breathing!"

The valet cleared his throat. "Yes sir...well, I'm sure these difficulties will all work themselves out once you rent a room, eat a warm meal, take a long nap..."

"Only if some friendly passing loon cuts your head off while I'm sleeping," Edward muttered.

His valet smiled, although very discreetly, and continued speaking. "And the sea here is just wonderful...you know, I haven't been swimming in so long..." He glanced around. "The lightning seems to have stopped...hmm, I just might take a swim while you take a nap."

Edward frowned at his servant. "But it's raining!" he protested.

A flicker of a smile appeared on the other man's face, as he answered, "Oh, good point, sir...I might get wet if I do that!"

Edward's frown deepened, and he wondered which god he should pray to in order to get the lightning to resume and strike his miscreant manservant. Finally, he decided the more promising option was just to pray to all of them that his valet cramped up while swimming, and drowned.

Both men fell silent, and they had been walking without speaking for several minutes when the valet noticed Edward's lips moving ever so slightly. "Oh, I didn't know you were religious, sir!" he said.

Edward started, looked around rather guiltily, and then asked, "What?"

"Well, you were praying, weren't you?" Edward blinked, but said nothing. "I didn't know you were religious, that's all."

"I'm not," Edward replied. Then, glancing upwards, he hurried to add, "I mean, not terribly...but there's always room for improvement...if I could be convinced that the gods really existed, and were as benevolent and generous as they claim to be, I'm sure I'd become a very religious man."

Smiling discreetly, his valet nodded. "I take it then, sir, you were praying for good fortune during your stay here?"

"Umm, yes, you could say that," Edward said, avoiding the other man's gaze as he spoke.

Revenge is a sweet dish best served cold, much like ice cream.

-- Topic sentence of a grade-school essay written by Edward

Chapter Ninety





Edward stumbled, wet and weary, into the Count's Arms, an inn and pub in western Anvil. He glanced about, glaring at everyone in the room. He'd headed to the waterfront already, figuring that there would be cheap lodging to be had there; instead, he had very rudely been ousted from the only inn there, The Fo'c'sle, because he wasn't a seafarer. So, trudging back through the rain to the Count's Arms, he had come to terms with the fact that he'd have to pay a full 25 gold for his room. Needless to say, he was significantly less than pleased. In fact, he was so much less than pleased that he'd inwardly vowed revenge on the proprietress of The Fo'c'sle, Mirabelle Monet -- but not until he'd changed into dry clothes, rested, and eaten, in whatever order took his fancy.

As he clomped -- rather, sloshed -- into the room, staring daggers at everyone who dared to cross his path, a young man approached him. "Hello there!" he greeted. "My name is Velwyn Benirus, and you look like someone who could use a place of your own here in town. And it just so happens that I'm selling a beautiful manor house, full of character, because I'm moving out of town; and, since I don't have time to negotiate, as my business is so pressing, I'm going to let it go for the ridiculously low price..."

Edward turned malevolent eyes in his direction, and snarled, "Piss off!" The other man blinked at Edward's fury, and quickly absented himself. Satisfied by his success, Edward finished sloshing up to the counter, and demanded in his most uncivil tones, "You there! I want a room!"

Wilbur, the publican, cleared his throat, and said, "Yes sir. That'll be 25 gold."

"Highway robbery is illegal in this empire, you know!" Edward snapped.

Wilbur frowned, saying, "Well, sir, if you think you could find a better deal here in town, be my guest."

"'If you think you could find a better deal, be my guest'," Edward repeated in a mocking tone, flinging the gold at the publican.

Stooping to pick it up, Wilbur replied meekly, "Thank you very much, sir. Here's the key to your room." This, in turn, he flung at Edward.

Starting in surprise, Edward made no other move, and the heavy iron key flew into swift, painful contact with his jaw.

Wilbur smiled as Edward bent to retrieve the key. "Have a nice evening, sir."

Trudging up the stairs, oozing a trail of water behind him like a giant human snail, Edward thought, "Well, now, that's one more to add to list..."

When, at last, he'd reached his room, he plopped into a chair -- making a noise very reminiscent of a large stone plopping into a body of water -- and pulled out a soggy list from one of his pockets. It read as follows:





*** Private ***
* * * TOP SECRET * * *
* Do NOT read *
* If found, return to Edward *
* Do NOT read *
* * * TOP SECRET * * *
*** Private ***

Retribution List

Imperial Guard who arrested me (he arrested me!) <-- haven't been able to track him down...too many Imperial Guards

Imperial City beggar (pick-pocketed 3 gold from me) <-- no luck so far...too many beggars, they all look alike

Headmaster George (geography teacher in highschool) <-- honoured user croaked before I shove those !#$#'ing globes down his throat...

Aunt Francisca (for sending those gods-awful outfits every Christmas, that Mom would make me wear all #$% 'ing year) <-- died last summer, before I could have retribution...may she rot in Oblivion

Mom (for making me wear the outfits Aunt Francisca would send) <-- CHECK...killed her pet bird, fed it to the cat, the cat choked on its beak

Valen Dreth (for taunting me in prison) <-- update: DB wants him dead too, now I can get revenge and gold, haha, go me!

Vicente Valtieri (arrogant SOB needs to be taught a good lesson) <-- might have to wait on this one...it probably wouldn't do much for my job performance if I attacked my boss

Valet (unparalled insolence, has no respect for me) <-- postpone vengeance while he's still useful to me

Mirabelle Monet (throwing me out of her inn)


Frowning as he read over his list, he wondered if it reflected poorly on his abilities that the only person on whom he'd sworn revenge and actually been able to avenge himself was his mother. "Nah," he decided. "My mom is pretty tough...she can even out arm-wrestle me and everything! Anyway, it's always harder to exact revenge on your own mother because of family loyalty and feelings and whatever..."

This point settled to his satisfaction, and reassured that he really was the skilled, ruthless adventurer that he imagined himself to be, he added the following line to his list:




Wilbur (for throwing key into my face)


Then, just in case the point had been lost in the header, Edward added the following at the bottom of the soggy page:




**DO NOT READ -- PRIVATE DOCUMENT**

Notice to all residents of Anvil:
Please note that repeated rumors have come to our ears of a gang of female thieves who use their wiles to prey on men. As of yet these rumors are unsubstantiated, but we advise all male citizens to use wisdom and caution if approached by any unknown females.
Anvil City Guard



Chapter Ninety-One

Edward had slept for a long time, managed to eat more than a horse, and dug up new, dry clothes. His valet had mysteriously disappeared, and Edward dared to hope that his prayers might have been answered -- although, at the same time, he felt slight compunction. "If the gods really do exist, will they punish me if I don't keep my word? I mean, if they granted my wish, and I don't become super religious?" he worried.

This thought perplexed him, as he had no intention of becoming religious. "Religion is for wimps," he thought. "And fools...only a fool would get involved with something that won't let you rob people, exact revenge, plot crimes..." But, at the same time, if the gods did as he'd asked, what would they do when he broke his word? The gods weren't renowned for their graciousness when crossed...

To distract himself from this puzzler, he decided to go about his first order of business: revenge on Mirabelle Monet. Wilbur could wait, he decided -- Wilbur at least rented him a room, even if he did charge him an arm and a leg, and throw a key into his face. "Anyway," he figured, "no sense ticking him off further while I'm staying in his inn..."

Strolling to the docks at a leisurely pace, Edward wondered how he'd go about exacting revenge. "I could push her into the sea," he thought, adding ill humouredly, "and, with any luck, she'll meet the same fate as my valet."

At that moment, a hand clapped him on the back and an excited voice accosted him. He jumped a good foot into the air, spinning around to face his valet, who was saying, "Sir, you'll never believe my good fortune! I just met someone, Velwyn Benirus, who was selling his ancestral home -- a huge, beautiful manor right here in town, fully furnished -- and he sold it to me for 5,000 septims!"

Edward glared, mentally cursing the gods. Not only had they not answered his prayers, but they'd rewarded his wayward servant.

"Which means, of course, sir, that you won't have to stay in the inn here in Anvil! You can stay at my home."

Edward brightened at this, but only slightly. While, on the one hand, it was good to save 25 gold a night, on the other hand, it was hard to do so at the cost of yet one more piece of excellent fortune falling into the lap of -- of all people -- his servant.

"Will you come take a look at it, sir?" the excited valet asked. "I'm certain you'll be as impressed as I was."

Edward frowned. "No, not now...later," he answered.

"Oh, are you sure?" the other man asked, clearly disappointed.

Feeling somewhat better at his valet's reaction, Edward declared firmly, "Yes, I'm on an important mission!"

"Oh, I see," the valet nodded understandingly. "Out to bring peace and justice to the waterfront?"

Edward shifted uncomfortably. No matter how hard he tried, he still found it difficult to maintain his equanimity when people started speaking of justice. "Umm, yes, something like that," he answered.

His valet nodded approvingly. "I'm glad to hear it, sir...the port is in need of a good cleaning up! Some of the people here...the things they do, and for the most trifling reasons...petty revenge, wounded pride..." He shook his head. "You'd be amazed, sir, at some of these people!"

Edward shifted again, feeling very ill at ease. "Yes, well, I have to get to work..."

"Right you are, sir!" the other man nodded. "I'll go tidy up the new house. Here, I'll show you on your map right where it is, so you can find it easily." With this, he did as he'd said, and then departed.

Edward watched sullenly as his valet departed. He couldn't explain it...no matter how hard he tried, he never seemed to get very far in life...and as bad as that was, to make matters worse, this lowly upstart, this trifling servant, had all the luck! "Oblivion!" Edward thought. "I couldn't have even afforded that house, even if I had been offered it! How does he get the money to do that?" Then a thought struck him. "Probably from his thieving...after the gray fox invited him -- and not me -- to join the thieves guild." His scowl firmly set, Edward felt like crying.

Then, catching sight of a tavern sign, he thought, "I need a drink." Edward pushed open the door of The Flowing Bowl tavern with a shove, and stomped sulkily inside. "A drink," he said to the Bosmer behind the counter, "and make it strong. Very strong."

The publican nodded, handing him a mug of a very foul tasting brew, and Edward took a long draft. At the same time, someone sat down beside him. "Now, what could be bothering a handsome fellow like you so much that you need something that strong?" a soft, sultry voice crooned.

Edward almost jumped out of his seat, spilled the contents of his mug all over the counter and himself, and choked on the mouthful of brew he'd been about to swallow. Gasping, wheezing, soaking wet, stinking of alcohol and very self conscious, he turned to see the speaker. He nearly did a second double take as he saw her. She fit her voice completely -- absolutely beautiful, and a bit tawdry.

"And, as bad as it is, isn't there some way we could make it better?" she asked, apparently not even noticing his series of blunders, or the fact that he was drenched in and reeking of liquor.

Edward tried to speak, but couldn't find his voice. Instead, swallowing hard, he managed to nod his head and smile very stupidly.

"I thought so," she crooned, pressing a key into hand. She leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "After 11...at Gweden farmstead, right outside of town. And I'll bring a friend, too..." She smiled. "Save your money, sweetie -- trust me, you won't need any more of this." She pointed at the now empty mug, and winked. Then she got up, swaggered to the door, turned to him as she reached it and said, "Don't you be late now," and then, as suddenly as she'd come, she was gone. Edward blinked, once, twice, and then fell backwards off of his stool.

When the lure of danger and adventure calls,
When the innocent a protector need,
To see them safely through tempests and squalls,
Then the true hero their pleas shall heed.
-- Ode to the Heroes



Chapter Ninety-Two

Edward was at his valet's new home, nursing a bump on his head and bad headache beside the fireplace. He noticed with only fleeting interest that the house, though in need of some minor repairs, seemed to be a very nice one; his mind was focused on the girl he'd met at The Flowing Bowl. "My valet was right," he thought, "and that's for sure! What am I doing, worrying about Antionetta, when there's gorgeous girls like that out there, who only have to take one look at me and they're smitten?"

Then, another thought occurred to him. Despite the fact that he currently wasn't speaking to his valet, he desperately wanted to reveal his run in with that girl -- whatever her name was. This desire was only heightened in light of his servant's unflattering assessment of Antionetta's feelings for him.

He sat lost in thought for several minutes, weighing the pro's -- rubbing his snotty servant's nose in his newfound appeal to the ladies -- against the con's -- acknowledging said snotty servant's existence. Finally, the temptation being too great, he decided on the pro's.

Waiting until his valet came into the room, busy about this chore or that, he declared very nonchalantly, "Oh, by the way, I should tell you...I won't be home tonight."

"Oh, another mission sir?"

Edward smiled. "No, I have a date with a hot woman."

"Come now, sir," his valet chided. "You don't have to lie to me...you know you can trust me not to give away your missions."

Edward's smile turned into a glare. "Lie?" he demanded. "I'm not lying, you stupid servant! I am meeting a hot woman, and her friend! She came up to me -- before I had even noticed her -- and invited me to her place, a little farmstead outside of town!"

His valet stared at him, somewhat stunned by the sharpness of his tone, but more so by his words and the fact that he seemed to believe them. "What was it you were drinking again, sir?" he asked.

Edward's glare intensified. "Who said I was drinking?"

An eyebrow raised, the valet answered, "Only conclusion one can reach, sir, unless you were swimming in alcohol."

Edward flushed. Though his clothes had dried, he still smelled very strongly of his very strong drink. "Someone spilled their drink on me, actually," Edward snapped. He was not technically lying, as someone had indeed spilled their drink all over him; he just neglected to include the fact that that someone was him.

"I see," the valet answered dryly.

"And, just because you have no idea what does and doesn't appeal to the ladies, I'll have you know that I neither hallucinated nor invented meeting her!"

"And she's beautiful?" the valet asked. "And not charging you for the meeting?"

Edward's eyes bulged. That was the last straw! It was bad enough when his servant doubted that he was the babe magnet that he was, but now to imply that he had hooked up with a lady of the night?

"Sorry sir," the valet hastened to say, apparently sensing Edward's fury. "But it just strikes me as highly suspect that a beautiful woman would be...well, interested in you." A second glance at Edward, who felt his blood reaching a boiling point, prompted the other man to hastily add, "I mean before she knows anything about you, of course, sir...before she experiences your charm and wit..."

"My wit and charm," Edward replied through clenched teeth, "radiate forth, so that she doesn't have to talk to me to know what a brilliant, sophisticated man I am."

"Hmm..." his valet murmured thoughtfully, as if to himself more than to Edward, "yes, I'm sure he radiated something, covered in his drink and doubtless tongue-tied or else babbling like a schoolboy...but sophistication?" Then, an idea seemed to come to the other man, because his expression changed very quickly into one of alarm. "Sir, this might be the gang I've heard rumors of -- a gang that singles out gullible men, and then lures them..."

By now, Edward had had enough. "That's right," he said, his tone dripping with loathing, "it would have to be some sort of mistake, or a gang of criminals, or something like that, for a gorgeous woman to be interested in me. You have to make up some sort of excuse to explain away the fact that she's interested in me, just like you had to make up an excuse to convince yourself that Antionetta isn't crazy about me. You know what, though? Just because you're a jealous nothing who can't stand to see my success, who is envious of my every achievement, nothing changes the facts. You are just a servant, whereas I am a somebody. And you know what else? You're not even a servant anymore...you're a former servant!" He paused to regain his breath, his tone having reached a pitch that was almost painful to the ear. "Because I'm firing you, you worthless, good-for-nothing, half-witted, lame-brained, jealous bag of...of...of minotaur turds!"

His valet blinked at him, too shocked to say anything. Edward turned on his heel, and stormed out of the manor house. The other man stood in place for a few minutes, far too amazed to do anything else. And then he mused aloud, "My gods, he took that the wrong way...I wonder if it was the way I put it..."