"Your correspondence, m'lud." the servant laid the silver platter containing the days reports, missives, sundry epistles and letters down on the desk beside the breakfast plate his master was still picking from, absent-mindedly.
"Hmm? Very well Jensen." The baron's eyes remained fixed on today's Celdor Cryer's Guild news sheet.
The servant withdrew, as was expected.
The Baron continued his reading; more on the Leminkainen trade delegation's arrival (must ensure they received their gifts), details of the St Oswystry's Day remembrance services (have Jensen ensure that his more austere and reverential dress robes are laundered and pressed in preparation), article lauding the (buffoon) father of the "Justinian traitor" for confessing all and falling on the mercy of the church and state (pitiful idiot, but serves his purpose), social pages full of the Duke's recent visits and social calendar (the local "season" is in full swing, must ensure the diary is full; lots of ground work still to be done), oh and look in the court announcements; the lapdog Hawkwood "baron" has got himself engaged to the Traitor's little sister. Well played, boy. Wonder if that Torenson you inherited had anything to do with that? Can't have, I suppose, he was last seen swanning off into space.
The remains of the breakfast are cold now. He folds the news sheet neatly and places it to one side and idly flicks through the correspondence.
Copies of Guild financial reports (increase in marble exports, best to refocus some of the mining efforts to capitalize in the short term, long term stick with metals for security). Formal correspondence about the expansion requests (positive, but a way to go yet). Introduction letters from the Leminkainen delegates (yadda yadda). No word yet from Sir Jutland on the Austrum Situation. Odd (has that old goose, Samuel, got to him?), possibly delayed (hmmm, might need to find additional sources). Strange and unusual, a transcribed message, taken a while to be decrypted.
(Stupid bastard son of a whore)
"Are you well, my dahhrling?" his wife purred demurely as she looked up from the chaise longue on the other side of the room. The cotton candy coloured fur ball of a creature on her lap perked up it's ears. "Your countenance appears to have discoloured with anguish."
"That Prophet Cursed idiot!"
"Which particliere eediot, sweetness?" She was already starting to focus back on petting the creature on her lap.
"I told him to leave things alone but it appears he may have acted unwisely, Devils take the man!"
"Which "man" my love?" She swung her legs from the seat and strode towards him, her graceful gait and perfect, sculptured figure belying her age. Her pet yipped as if trying to underline it’s mistresses question.
"That imbecile Alfredo, I don't know what he's done but from the sounds of things there is a mess back at home."
"Home? Which home?"
"The mansion, in our fief, where our SON is." His frustration was beginning to be redirected towards her. He immediately checked himself. THAT would be a dangerous path to take. He back tracked. "Sorry. My humble apologies, I spoke rashly."
She reached out and stroked his cheek. He felt the cool of her touch and the bejewelled rings on her slender hands. She always seemed to have such cold fingers (warm heart).
"I may need to return there."
"At thees time of year, but the season? The delegation?"
"I know, I don't want to but I fear I have to. Things demand the Baron's attention and I fear the damage that could be done if matters are left unchecked. You will have to take charge of things in my absence I'm afraid." He placed his hand gently on hers.
She pouted "But thees is why I marry you, so I do not have to do thees things."
He chuckled "I know my dear, but you and I know you are eminently better at it than I anyway. Who could refuse you?"
"Well, you could not"
(No. I couldn't, could I?)
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