HOME | DD

Description

They called him a hero, said that he was an example of the Empire, and lauded his actions for the good of the Sahalyian people. He had single-handedly brought down a great evil and saved the life of one of the Emperor's sons, a shining beacon of wisdom and justice that they all looked to for leadership in such troubling times. With war to the east and rebellion stirring in the Empire, Captain Lassiter was an inspiration to them all.

Or something like that. Frederic wasn't actually paying attention.

The orator had been going for nearly half an hour now as the noble lords and ladies in attendance looked politely interested, and the subject of their praise grew slowly more and more wooden in appearance. He was at least dressed for the occasion, but the man held to the belief that a dressmaker’s dummy would've looked more appropriate in the expensive hosiery he wore. He thought that same dummy would have made a far more interesting dinner companion among the nobility than him, but as it had been made increasingly clear as the evening progressed, his opinion on the subject—any subject—mattered very little.

"And now, my lords and ladies, I give you," the orator said at last. "Captain Frederic Lassiter, the savior of Prince Jovan III, the hero of Tierra Lue!"

The man in question gained his feet amidst the polite applause and vocal accolades, pointedly ignoring the approving looks from the women and men around him. He had a well-muscled figure with a face typical of Northern Sahalyian ancestry, strong features and high cheekbones, and his wheat-colored hair was kept trimmed close to his face. There was a severe scab on his chin and his right arm was in a clean white sling, but in this instance they were only reminders of his bravery. When the orator stepped aside and all eyes turned up towards him, Frederic exuded an air of authority as natural as breathing.

He exhaled calmly, blue eyes shining in anticipation.

Before the ceremony, one of the royal retainers had appeared as a sort of chaperone for the lowborn captain and he had given the airship captain a sheet of paper for precisely this moment. It was three paragraphs of beautiful penmanship, a script ready at hand if Frederic found himself at a loss for words. 'Mustn't disappoint the gentry,' the retainer had said, a smile on his face and real fear in his eyes. The captain finally understood why as he scanned the crowd briefly, catching a glimpse of the wolves sitting silently amidst the sheep.

Clearing his throat, he crumpled the beautiful script in one hand.

They expected a story from him, another tale of bravado, of how humbled he was to be in their company. They were nobles, the powerful shakers and movers of the Sahalyian Empire; it was their due.

"Aron Lummel," Frederic said suddenly. Foreheads wrinkled, and those who were seated traded glances. The captain pretended not to notice. "Bruce Longstroth, Marc Padgett, Sheila Pugh, Uriah Ward," and if his voice trembled for a moment, Frederic was the only one who noticed. "These are the names of the crew members I lost that day in Tierra Lue. My ship and this world is poorer for the loss." People shifted on their feet, and a general disquiet sifted through the gathered lords and ladies. "I'm not the hero everyone's made me out to be. The truth is, the heroes are the ones that I–"

The lamps flickered, the soft, orange glow of the fire pattern struggling to stay lit. Then, without warning, all the lights in the grand hall went out. Several people screamed and voices rose and fell in confusion as others tried to figure out what happened. An older man called out, pointing out the window towards the city, "Down at the Hub there! This whole section has gone out."

They were in the Pearl Quarter, a richer part of the city composed of nobility and business, but down the street, all the lights flickered and died, marking a path straight down and further into the hills by the river where dots of green fire gave some clue as to the skirmish taking place at the Hub. The sound of cannon fire could barely be made out, but the silence didn’t reign long as the gathered nobles traded gossip in whispers.

"Fighting this close? The rebels must be getting desperate," someone sighed.

A solemn voice remarked, "They tried to attack the Palace itself just last week."

"Yes, I heard a dozen rebels were executed on the ramparts."

"No, it was two dozen! I heard it was a score of them, at least."

"They're fighting this war of theirs on the wrong continent," a young man sneered. "If they were smart, they'd all go back across the ocean where they belong.”

"No one ever accused otherkind of being smart, Jonathan."

Laughter from more than one person broke the tension in the room.

Around the room, the guards that wore cyphers on their dominant hands, jewel-encrusted foci that were typically worn on the arm from wrist to elbow, created patterns of light along the perimeter of the room, and the loud speculation faded into quiet murmurs as the light grew. The nobles reined in their fear and their disdain alike, settling back behind their polite veneers of nobility like elaborate costumes, ready to resume their parts in an even more intricate play. A man announced that they had already sent a runner out to investigate the commotion but they expected the lights to be turned on sooner than later. Drinks would be served in the adjoining parlor while they waited, where several servants were busy bringing the obviously unused fireplaces to life. As they filtered out of the grand hall, most nobles chattered lightly among themselves: drinks by firelight, wouldn’t it be quaint?

Not one of them remarked on the fact that their guest of honor was missing, leaving only one royal retainer to wonder frantically where Frederic Lassiter had gone.