Author's Note: I wrote this rather late at night, and also revised it rather late at night, so please forgive any super obvious typos + mistakes.
Jo finds Oscar sitting at the base of the mayor’s porch,
whittling at a small wooden block, and whistling awfully off-key. Engrossed, he
doesn’t spot her until she is sat on the steps beside him.
“A
success?” he asks.
Jo
considers before answering, gently smoothing the folds of her skirt. “Yes, of a
sort. We got our guide. We leave in two days, before sunrise.”
“How is
the Peterson family holding up?”
“Poorly,”
Jo responds, “I had wondered where all this smoke stemmed from; I’ve gotten my
answer.”
Oscar
winces, “And Ms. Miriam? Was Susanne the niece she was going to see?”
“I
didn’t speak with her. Ms. Angelique wouldn’t allow me inside the house.”
“Huh,”
Oscar hums, shaving wood absently from his sculpture as he thinks.
“That is
odd, isn’t it?” Jo continues, frowning, “What was she trying to hide?”
“Probably
nothing. I imagine that the Peterson’s are mourning the loss of a daughter.
Some family’s are very private about such affairs.”
Jo’s
scowl deepens, she can feel the lines forming between her brows. She rests her
chin against the heel of her hand and watches the silhouettes of thrush arc
across the smoke-clouded sky. “Well, Angelique believes that the Peterson girl
is still alive. It’s why she agreed to go with us.”
Her
frown has infected Oscar, but his is the more sympathetic variety. “What leads
her to think that?”
Jo
doesn’t curse; but she releases an exasperated sigh that could easily take the
place of one. “I don’t know. She refused to elaborate. But all that matters is
that we’ve got our guide, and we’ve got our supplies. The only thing left is to
get up that mountain.”
“And
kill a dragon,” Oscar adds helpfully. “And also, possibly, save the Peterson
kid.” He muses.
She
sighs and shakes her head. “Possibly,” The word tastes bitter on her tongue. A
lie, no matter how well intended, always does.
“By the
way,” Oscar says abruptly, “someone has come calling for you. The duke,
what’s-his-name?”
“Oh no,”
groans Jo.
“Good
gods,” he startles, “What have you done?”
She
stretches as she stands to her feet. “Kind of you to assume I’m the one at fault.
I only turned down an invitation to his estate.”
It is
Oscars turn to scowl, an expression that does not suit him very well. “Why do
you insist upon insulting the aristocracy in every place we visit?”
“My job
isn’t to play teatime with the pompous old folks who cling to their dwindling
power and wealth, like little children hold fast to their teddies. Besides,
more often than not, they just get in the way of things.”
“The
further we are from Sol, the less and less that’s the case. Surely you’ve
noticed this. Besides, you work for the Queen.”
Jo
wrinkles her nose, “Are you claiming I’m a hypocrite?” she folds her arms,
saying stoutly, “Her only jurisdiction is the practice of magic. And even that
is checked by the likes of court-appointed scribes, like you.”
“And you
don’t think that’s still too much privilege for an unelected official to hold?”
he asks.
Jo
scoffs. “We aren’t having this debate again, Oscar. Is Duke Mons inside?”
Oscar
rolls his eyes, and that marks the end of that. “Kelsey has been keeping him
entertained,” he says. “They’re waiting for you in Fitzgerald’s office.”
-
Barnes
Fitzgerald’s office is an apt summary of the man himself. Disorganized, chalk
full of glittery old knick-knacks, and a bookshelf barren of books. The room
itself is not unpleasant; plush carpet squishes beneath Jo’s feet, and the
walls are lined with paper spun of sugar. But the room smells of dust bunnies,
and she can only assume that the man waiting for her there stinks worse of
corruption.
Darion
Mons is a young man. Much younger than Jo thought, and certainly not older than
herself. Twenty two, she thinks.
He’s
thin, with hair the color of straw and perfect teeth that he bares in an
overlarge smile as Jo walks into the room. He wears the nicest suit Jo has seen
since she boarded the train to Monsbury. It’s an ebony black that stands out as
starkly as fresh words on a page, and his shoes too, are as glossy as an
inkpot.
Kelsey
stands behind Fitzgerald’s desk, almost using it as a barricade between herself
and the rooms other inhabitant. Relief floods her face when she sees Jo.
“Duke
Mons, this is Doctor Josephina Gundry. She’s the Magic Practitioner from Sol.” She
says, all in one breath. “I’ll go fetch you two some tea.”
Having put
a voice to this inelegant excuse, she darts around the desk, past Jo, and out
the door. Duke Mons watches her go, smile still bared.
“I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Duke
Mons.” Jo folds her hands carefully in front of her, “I will do everything in
my power to kill the dragon, and to set things right in Monsbury, and the lands
that surround it.”
The room
stays silent. Long enough that Jo prepares another series of words to sharpen,
but not long enough for her to wield them. The duke’s smile broadens.
“And
that’s why you denied my request for audience, yes?”
“It was
not meant as a slight. I’m sorry if it was taken so,”
“Oh, no,
no, no. Nothing of the sort, Ms.” Duke Mons strides over to the mayors desk,
and takes the overlarge chair. He extends his hand toward the seat opposite it.
Unperturbed when Jo remains unmoving, he continues, “I only had an offer for
you. One I think you’ll like.” When she says nothing, he continues, “The
affairs of my people concern me, as much as they concern Barnes. Whether they
are on the eastern side of town, or mine. I would like to provide you with
additional supplies and resources. Your companion has informed me that you
procured some from one of my townsfolk, but you can never be too prepared when
intending to scale King Mountain.”
“Oh,”
says Jo, genuinely surprised. “That’s… very generous of you.”
“Really?”
The duke says, pleased, “Why, it’s what anyone would- should- do.”
“A
generous spirit is not a trait I have noted in most aristocrats. Your
willingness to help speaks greatly to your character,” Jo hopes she isn’t
laying it on too thick, privately wishing that Oscar was here instead of her.
But Darion Mons smiles from ear to ear.
“I am
very happy to hear that you will not protest to me and my men joining you on
your quest,” he says.
Jo’s
brain grinds to a halt, like a train stalling on tracks. “Pardon that?”
“You
will need a guide up the mountain, no? Outsiders traipsing up King Mountain
alone rarely fairs well, as the locals are quick to inform you.”
“Yes,
but,” Jo reaches to pinch the bridge of her nose, before catching herself. His
leap in logic so sudden, she feels she flails about like a whale knocked
ashore. “Your vassal,” she grasps, “Angelique Peterson. She has already agreed to
the task.”
Darrion
Mons dismisses this with a flick of his wrist, “Peterson, pshaw.” He says with
contempt, “You don’t want her help. She’s been very unstable since her kid
sister died.”
“The one
who went missing a few days ago?”
“That’s
the ticket!” He still wears a wide grin, one that stretches the corners of his
face and turns it into something almost unearthly. His smile is a mask, like Barnes-
but where the mayor conceals his overabundance of fear, the duke can’t quite
bite back his monstrous arrogance.
Jo takes
a step back. “Your offer for supplies is kind. However, there is no need for
you to leave your estate unattended. We are likely to be gone for a long time.”
“My
darling wife is equipped to handle any eventualities that will occur during my
absence,” he is quick to reassure.
Jo grits
her teeth and thinks about what Oscar would do. She proceeds to do the
opposite, “Your offer of help is appreciated but not accepted. We do not need
your entire militia acting as fodder for the dragon, and they will only slow us
down. The Queen of Sol sent me to do a job that I am very capable of doing without
your interference, thank you.”
The
smile vanishes from the duke’s face. It does not fade, it does not slide, and
it does not falter; it is simply gone. And out unfolds a tantrum, “It is all or
nothing, I’m afraid,” he spits, “if you will not have me with you, then you
will not have my aide at all.”
“That
sounds quite alright to me,” Jo musters a smile of her own, “I’m very glad we
could come to an agreement.”
Points: 2805
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