Cherny stands, as he has so often in recent weeks, at the side of the parlour; an elegant, spacious room - tasteful, well-appointed without straying into vulgarity. He has learned
stillness in that time, learned how to stand without fidgeting. He refrains from tugging at the starched linen at his throat and cuffs; he takes care not to crease or rumple the expensive fabric of his doublet or britches, supple silk and stiff brocade in the Lady's colours, an outfit of Sera Atrahasis' design that he had come to call his
clown suit. Not quite the bold red-and-gold of Sir Elliot's garb; more muted, subdued so as not to challenge his master's glory while still making clear by cut and style that they are a
matched set - a Lady must have her Knight, and a Knight must have his Squire.
The room is quiet, nothing louder than a genteel laugh or the chime of fine porcelain as a teacup is returned to its saucer; the Lady holds court, surrounded by a select few of her most favoured - the prettiest birds in her aviary, chosen for their charming speech or refined features, the grace with which they wear the clothes their Lady has gifted them; they sip fragrant tea and nibble upon dainty pastries, they discuss airy matters of clothing, of dining, subjects befitting ladies of their station; ever and again they turn admiring eyes to their Lady, seeking her smile, her approval, or merely her attention - a glance, a nod, an acknowledgement that they are pleasing to her.
The squire has taken a place beside the window, where the glare of daylight has him half-lost among the rich draperies (red-and-gold, of course), easily missed, easily forgotten. He stands quietly, imagining himself no more than a piece of furniture, while
other sounds leak through the windowpanes, distant sounds from the streets outside. Voices raised, rough and ill-formed, at first distant but closer by the minute; now and then a sharper cry, a man's outraged yell or a woman's dismayed shriek; horn blasts rolling across the rooftops from poorer districts; urgent conversation from the street as squads of Civil Constables cross paths in front of the Lady's residence; frantic reports of districts contested and lost, yet of all those in the parlour, only the boy near the window receives such news -
the Lady is at tea, and not to be disturbed.
A furtive glance to the world outside shows him precious little; a slice of an affluent street, all pristine cobbles and new-painted woodwork, windowboxes that had been riots of colour until the locusts had swept through town. Occasionally a figure passes by, a well-to-do citizen or a harried-looking Civil Constable. More of the latter, as the day progresses. Slanted columns of smoke here or there above the rooftops, darker and thicker than chimney plumes.
From these meager clues he strives to guess at what goes on outside; at what progress the Militia makes against the beleagured Civil Constables. He can imagine how it's going. Trained, drilled men, organised and coordinated, retaking Myrkentown under the Marshall's command. Civil patrols who've never been taught how to work together, how to act together, who've been given sashes and cudgels and pamphlets of sartorial standards, but little more than that. The end result is hardly in doubt, the only uncertainty being when.
When will they reach the Lady's house? When will they gather outside, and demand that she surrender herself to their justice? Will
they wait, or will they just break down the doors? His thoughts are drawn away from such matters by movement in the parlour, Sir Elliot moving to stand, the Lady's pretty birds fluttering in mock-petulant dismay-
Must he leave? But they have so enjoyed his company, and there's yet tea in his cup. Cherny straightens, draws in a steadying breath, looking to his Knight to see if he should
* * *
leap and crackle merrily in their black iron prison, hungrily devouring the twists and scraps of paper as he pokes them into the stove's glowing belly, and he can't help a hoarse and breathless laugh at the sight. The narrow sticks of kindling have begun to catch, and he sits back on his heels as he waits for the fire to grow hotter, lungs still aching, the autumn air provoking a now-familiar twinge from the scar where he'd caught a bad case of arrow. A wary glance for the tavern where the Vice-Governor's posters have been torn from the walls for fuel, before he returns his attention to the stove, the stove that warms Ser Catch's shack, which he now goads back to life. He has...
A blink. A frown of confusion as his gaze lowers to hands that tremble with nerves, with excitement. Chilly and raw-feeling as if scrubbed in cold water, and fingertips lift to his cheek, his brow and note the same. He stands, and his limbs are weak, unsteady as after urgent exertion, and he tugs at the black wool of his doublet and the linen beneath where it sticks to the skin of his chest.
He turns with unsteady steps, disoriented as if waking abruptly from a dream; his shoe catches and tangles on something, and he staggers a moment before he can regain his balance. Fiery autumn colours pool untidily in the dirt, supple silk and stiff brocade in muted red-and-gold trampled beneath his boots. He clutches at his head in dismay at what Sir Elliot will say, what the
Lady will say, but in the moment after he is laughing again, but he doesn't know
why, only that something about that thought is ridiculous,
absurd. He laughs even more at the sticky sting beneath his fingers as they encounter an inches-long cut in his scalp, and when he realises that the fine fabric at his feet has too much
red in it, stiffening the silk and darkening the damask, he collapses to his knees and laughs until he's gasping, blind and breathless. An eruption, an outpouring of something built up over weeks and months and only now, only
now released, and he doesn't even know
why.
He's still laughing as he takes his iron knife to the ruined livery, as he tears it into scraps, as he feeds livid rags into the stove's hot little mouth.