Post by Sylvestre de Valmont(D) on Sept 9, 2007 6:50:02 GMT -5
I sat slumped in a corner of the ducal carriage, watching through half-closed eyes the grey blur of the approaching city and remembering the sheer exuberance I had felt the last time I’d made this journey. Now I was too sozzled to care.
It had been a long and tedious journey from Siovale to the City but it was nothing compared to the miserable journey that takes one away from the City and deep into wretched rustication, a journey I’ve endured not once but twice, firstly under the auspices of my self-righteous cousin Clovis and secondly under the equally self-righteous auspices of his bloody land steward.
Is there no rest for the wicked?
But after innumerable miserable months stuck at Clovis’s estate, or my estate as it is now (although you wouldn’t think it the way Clovis’s faithful retainers look down on me and order me around despite the fact that it’s my fortune, my damn fortune, that’s paying their wages – and don’t think I wouldn’t stop in an instant if under the terms of the inheritance I could) I was finally heading back to the city, back to life and happiness and all the glorious happy-making things one can only acquire in the heart of the civilised world.
I was starting to realise that being a Sovereign Duc isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Responsibilities blah blah duties blah blah. What’s the point of being powerful and quite inordinately wealthy if you can’t enjoy the pleasures of both? The way the Steward went on (and, believe, he did go on and on, like a priest at the bedside of a dying sinner), you would think the Sovereign Duc of Siovale worked for his people, rather than them for him. Urgh. Like I give two hoots for a bunch of scummy peasant farmers.
But it seemed my city lifestyle was more of a strain on the ducal coffers than I could have credited, hence my reluctant sojourn in the country learning all manner of dull matters of accounting and estate management. And, by learning, I mean enduring. My head was still aching from the long months of painful monotony and education, or was that the consequence of the quantity of wine and brandy consumed at the last post inn at which the carriage stopped? Well, who cares?
I really would have thought you could have hired someone else to do this sort of thing for you but when I put to the Steward he pulled his horse-face into a sickly sort of sneer and said: “You wish to hire to be the sovereign duc in your place?” which sadly put paid that that otherwise excellent plan.
Through the gentle haze of inebriation I was looking forward to arriving at the townhouse, not because, as last time, it heralded the start of a new and dazzling lease of life but because the endless rocking and jolting of the carriage was making me miserable and sick. I’ve never been a good traveller. Why some people do it for pleasure, I shall never know. I let myself drift in and out of consciousness but my dreams were run through with numbers and trade settlements, which was worse than being awake.
I only discovered that we had arrived only when someone pulled open the carriage door. I closed my eyes tightly against the assault of light and air.
“Welcome home, Master Sly.” Ah the familiar voice of Betta, my ever faithful spaniel in human form. Grotesque human form.
“This isn’t home,” I mumbled. “This is Clovis’s house. You can still see his blood between the cobblestones.”
There was a blur of shadow and motion, Betta putting her hands on her hips I think. “I told you we cleaned all that. It’s moss you’re seeing.”
“Well clean the moss. It looks like blood.”
“Yes, Master Sly. Are you going to come down from the carriage?”
“Not just at the moment.”
“Come on.” She reached for me with the sort of strength a woman has no business possessing and yanked me out of the carriage. My legs buckled and it was only Betta’s sturdy arm that prevented me from keeling over.
“You look awful,” she observed, evidently set on bring me cheer.
“I know, I know. It’s because I’m old and wretched and dissipated.”
“No, no, it’s because you haven’t washed.”
“Well I don’t care and I’m going to bed.”
“It’s two in the afternoon, Master Sly.”
“I don’t care. Bring me my opium pipe.”
Without waiting to hear her response and knowing she would do what I told her to do because she always did, I weaved my unsteady away across the courtyard, past the disgusted servants and into the house.
It had been a long and tedious journey from Siovale to the City but it was nothing compared to the miserable journey that takes one away from the City and deep into wretched rustication, a journey I’ve endured not once but twice, firstly under the auspices of my self-righteous cousin Clovis and secondly under the equally self-righteous auspices of his bloody land steward.
Is there no rest for the wicked?
But after innumerable miserable months stuck at Clovis’s estate, or my estate as it is now (although you wouldn’t think it the way Clovis’s faithful retainers look down on me and order me around despite the fact that it’s my fortune, my damn fortune, that’s paying their wages – and don’t think I wouldn’t stop in an instant if under the terms of the inheritance I could) I was finally heading back to the city, back to life and happiness and all the glorious happy-making things one can only acquire in the heart of the civilised world.
I was starting to realise that being a Sovereign Duc isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Responsibilities blah blah duties blah blah. What’s the point of being powerful and quite inordinately wealthy if you can’t enjoy the pleasures of both? The way the Steward went on (and, believe, he did go on and on, like a priest at the bedside of a dying sinner), you would think the Sovereign Duc of Siovale worked for his people, rather than them for him. Urgh. Like I give two hoots for a bunch of scummy peasant farmers.
But it seemed my city lifestyle was more of a strain on the ducal coffers than I could have credited, hence my reluctant sojourn in the country learning all manner of dull matters of accounting and estate management. And, by learning, I mean enduring. My head was still aching from the long months of painful monotony and education, or was that the consequence of the quantity of wine and brandy consumed at the last post inn at which the carriage stopped? Well, who cares?
I really would have thought you could have hired someone else to do this sort of thing for you but when I put to the Steward he pulled his horse-face into a sickly sort of sneer and said: “You wish to hire to be the sovereign duc in your place?” which sadly put paid that that otherwise excellent plan.
Through the gentle haze of inebriation I was looking forward to arriving at the townhouse, not because, as last time, it heralded the start of a new and dazzling lease of life but because the endless rocking and jolting of the carriage was making me miserable and sick. I’ve never been a good traveller. Why some people do it for pleasure, I shall never know. I let myself drift in and out of consciousness but my dreams were run through with numbers and trade settlements, which was worse than being awake.
I only discovered that we had arrived only when someone pulled open the carriage door. I closed my eyes tightly against the assault of light and air.
“Welcome home, Master Sly.” Ah the familiar voice of Betta, my ever faithful spaniel in human form. Grotesque human form.
“This isn’t home,” I mumbled. “This is Clovis’s house. You can still see his blood between the cobblestones.”
There was a blur of shadow and motion, Betta putting her hands on her hips I think. “I told you we cleaned all that. It’s moss you’re seeing.”
“Well clean the moss. It looks like blood.”
“Yes, Master Sly. Are you going to come down from the carriage?”
“Not just at the moment.”
“Come on.” She reached for me with the sort of strength a woman has no business possessing and yanked me out of the carriage. My legs buckled and it was only Betta’s sturdy arm that prevented me from keeling over.
“You look awful,” she observed, evidently set on bring me cheer.
“I know, I know. It’s because I’m old and wretched and dissipated.”
“No, no, it’s because you haven’t washed.”
“Well I don’t care and I’m going to bed.”
“It’s two in the afternoon, Master Sly.”
“I don’t care. Bring me my opium pipe.”
Without waiting to hear her response and knowing she would do what I told her to do because she always did, I weaved my unsteady away across the courtyard, past the disgusted servants and into the house.