The carriage came to a halt in the courtyard and, before Guiche could object, Saito had opened the door to help him down. Any protest he could have given was silenced by the servant; he would not hear of any modesty, genuine or false, from the young nobleman. Something about that, or perhaps just in general, felt deeply troubling to him.
"By your leave, Master Gramont, I shall return our horse to the stables and then tidy up; the ride back has left me a frightful mess. Siesta, if you would be so good?" He offered his arm to the other servant and she took it with a smile that was warm and infectious. Guiche found himself matching it. It was good, though, that someone had remembered the horse they'd brought along with them; he'd completely forgotten about it on the way out.
Although, now that he thought about it he felt a bit bad for Saito; riding it back with them in that weather. The horse looked exhausted as well; surely the return trip hadn't been that hard a ride? It looked as if it might drop dead at any moment.
"C'mon, lad. Let's get ye a hot bath, an' some hot food, an' a soft bed. No training tomorrow, ye kin just rest your aches and soothe yer pains." Kenneth patted him on the shoulder and opened the baggage compartment to retrieve Guiche's personal belongings for him.
"The nerve! Sticking me in with the luggage like some common buckler! I am a proper Coat of Arms, and I shall thank you to show some respect!" The Dwarf sighed and passed the shield to his master with a resigned expression. Ah, that's right. He'd stuck it in there when it had made a few untoward comments towards Siesta.
"Ah didnae get t'introduce ye properly afore. Guiche de Gramont, this here's Derflinger; yer new anti-magic shield. Derf, this'd be my lad, Guiche. Ah know ye met in th' store but consider this a proper re-introduction." Ugh. Well… even if it was rather crass a magical talking shield was… well, it was still a magical talking shield. One that had been instrumental in the saving of Siesta, to boot.
"I am honoured to meet you, mighty Derflinger, and I thank you for your valiant assistance in our mission tonight." Oh, Founder the mouth. How had he not noticed the mouth? It was a strip of metal along the top of the shield that moved as it spoke which gave the impressive of a vast, gaping maw.
"No worries, partner! I gotta say, Kenneth, I wasn't exactly sold on the idea of being a shield when you first pitched the idea to me, but that was great fun! I guess if I can absorb magic it makes way more sense for me to be in a shape that can block it, huh?" The mouth grinned. Without teeth. How. "But hey, partner, don't forget to use me to crack some skulls once in a while too, huh? These spikes aren't just for decoration." It was chuckling. The way the metallic not-lip moved when it laughed was almost hypnotic.
"I shall… endeavour to keep that in mind." Tucking the shield under one arm and shaking his head slightly, Guiche began to walk to the entryway. He should probably tell Montmorency about what happened as soon as possible… have her see if anything was broken. Now that he thought about it, there was still a faint ringing in his ears and he was pretty sure that he'd bled a little from… somewhere. Actually, now he wasn't so sure any more.
"Hey, speaking of decorations… partner… help a piece of armour out, will ya? I'd like a tiny little favour for giving you a block back there. Fair's fair, right?" Guiche started slightly, trying to figure out who was talking to him when he remembered Derflinger. Yes, seeing Montmorency, and the school Healer, sounded like an excellent idea.
"I would gladly fulfil any request you may have of me, Derflinger." Somehow, as soon as he said it, Guiche realized that was the wrong thing to say. He could feel the perverse glee radiating from the metal under his arm and he really wasn't sure how that was possible, or how he could so easily identify the sensation.
"Excellent! Just get some nice young lady to give me a good polish, maybe a bit of a wax, and we'll call it even, right? Okay, great! What a kind and conscientious partner you are, boy. I think I'll enjoy working with you." The young man sagged slightly between two steps and shook his head slowly.
"I… shall see what I can do." Feeling like he had, in some undefinable way, lost some sort of grand battle Guiche de Gramont continued to trudge toward the well-earned comforts of an infirmary, a warm bath, a hot meal, and his own bed.
The rain was heavy, but Mott could barely hear it from where he was. His private rooms were deep within the palatial estate and well-insulated from the unpleasant sounds of the weather and the hustle and bustle of his own home alike. It was dead silent; just the way he liked it. If he ever found a way to simulate the faint sound of a light breeze through rigging and a subtle creaking of wood then it would be just perfect.
Days like this didn't come often to him. When they did, however, he frequently found himself wishing that he'd never left the sea. Things were simpler when you were out on the ocean. Just the rolling of the ship and the soft noise of the swell around you. Certainly, the life he had now was far more comfortable, and yet…
He drew his razor across his cheek and then flicked the lather off into the marble basin. After such a thorough trouncing he'd felt a need to smarten himself up. He'd set his nose earlier and had just finished rinsing the mud, and blood, off his face. The real defeat tonight, he mused as he turned his head to one side and eyed the expensive Germanian mirror, was the loss of Guiche de Gramont's confidence. While the loss had been thoroughly due to his own foolishness the boy had shown remarkable gumption.
Really, next to the potential political gains he'd forfeited having to give up the girl barely even stung. Which wasn't to say that he'd let such a slight against him go unpunished, of course; he just had to think of an appropriately subtle method of returning his ire. Perhaps he could find out who had authority over that village of Tarbes and encourage them to consider a few simple reforms to the Lord's Tariffs?
A faint hint of a chill breeze made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Mott frowned, flicking the straight razor closed and laying it down on the edge of his bason as he nonchalantly picked up the nearby towel to wipe his face. The other hand dipped into the sleeve of his dressing gown and withdrew a spare wand.
He'd been loath to use this spell on Guiche during the fight because it was still a Triangle one but, as exposed as he felt at that moment, it wouldn't do to be careless. He whispered the incantation to himself, eyes firmly fixed on the mirror, and then released. A pure Water spell of his own design, based on healing principles and rather complicated in its function. The gist of it was that he was pushing, very lightly yet indiscriminately, on blood.
Mott turned around and moved his hand from left to right. As he did so he felt for any subtle changes in the resistance on his wand hand that would indicate a hidden presence. The only force he could feel was the one pushing away from him; the resistance of his own body. He frowned, stepping out into his rooms and quickly spying a tray left on the table beside the door.
It was a pot of tea, with a small note from the Head Maid. He smiled faintly; she'd brewed his favourite blend. It was a cheap Albion blend with a distinctly powerful odor that put many people off and simply reminded him of earlier days. The chill must have come in when she opened the door.
He poured himself a cup and carried it into the bathroom, putting it up on the shelf below the mirror. Its powerful scent filled the small room quickly and he sighed happily. Mott was often thankful for the diligence of his servants; he accepted only the best and, in doing so, found that his expectations were frequently exceeded. He'd been reminded of that just the other day, at the Academy, when he'd seen… he'd seen… seen…
The Count's brow furrowed as his carriage of thought lost a wheel. Something about the Academy? How peculiar. Perhaps he was just feeling a little flustered after the defeat. Now where… he looked down, frowning, as his groping hand met cold marble for the third time in his efforts to relocate his straight razor. Had he knocked it down in his haste to check the room?
Perhaps the chill had merely been a sign of an oncoming cold, as he suddenly felt quite warm. Mott looked up and saw two things at once. First was the line of red visible just under his chin that was starting to turn into a band around his neck. Second was the indistinct hooded figure standing in his mirror and staring at him with shining golden eyes.
There was a clatter and, as his gaze dropped involuntarily, he saw that his wand had hit the floor. It was surrounded by drops of blood. His blood? His knees were quivering. Mott felt for a moment like he'd fallen through his legs and then his arms caught on the marble countertop and he was barely able to hold himself up. So dizzy… how much… how much blood had he lost?
He looked down again, vision swimming as he tried to reach for the wand. It was right there, but his fingers wouldn't move. Blood was dripping from his wrist. The tendons were cut. When had that happened? He hadn't felt anything. There was a flicking noise and Mott found himself staring into the reflective surface of a razor, his own terrified eyes shining back at him, with the edge just barely reddened with blood. His blood.
"You are bleeding to death, Count." The voice was… it was his voice. Exactly his voice, in every minute detail. Yet not. It dripped with contempt, with malice, with sinister overtones. Was that what he sounded like? It couldn't be. His let arm could still move and he tried reaching into his robe. Questing fingers found only empty pouches. His eyes flickered away from the reflection and down to the wand on the floor. It wasn't there.
"No. There is no escape." A snap, then a clatter. Mott turned his head and then the pain came. It was sharp and crisp, like a searing line around his neck and under his wrist. He opened his mouth to scream and it was filled with cloth instead. Held tight, restricting his movement and his speech as well. His head was twisted to the side and he could see two halves of one of his wands laying on the tiles.
Another snap. Then another, and another. As his head swam through a thick soup and his vision began to blacken Mott saw all but one of his broken wands tossed aside. The last one was dangled in front of him like a carrot before an ass. "You were right. If you were not gracious in defeat then you would be nothing but a cooling corpse in this moment. The Banner protects their own, Count." His eyes watered.
He was going to die. In his own home, his own bathroom. There were pipes in the walls he could have caused to burst, tanks of water secured under the floor, weapons and extra implements secreted all over the bedroom and he carried no less than seven wands on his person. Mott had always known he had enemies, but this…
"However… you were gracious. So, you can have this. There will be no retribution. Guiche de Gramont, Kenneth Manson, Louise de la Vallière, Saito of Vallière, Viscount Wardes and especially Siesta of Tarbes will be left alone. Are we clear, Count?" He was given enough slack to nod his head, making sounds he could only hope were conciliatory.
"I hope you are not just saying what I want to hear. But if that is the case then keep something in mind." The person pulled on the gag, yanking Mott's head skyward. He felt a gush of fresh blood from his neck as dark spots danced in his vision. His assailant's next line was a harsh whisper so close to his ear that he could feel their breath.
"Your guards did not see me. I walked right in with your maid. I slit your throat and your tendons before you even knew I was here. If you turn your back on this oath, Count Mott, then you might just find your shaving hand once again…" The razor reappeared in his vision, shining like a star in the light of the oil lamps. "... slips. I will see my own self out." Then the pressure vanished. Mott collapsed on to his side, rolling over and scrabbling frantically for the last wand where it had clattered to the floor.
He had to jam the tip against his throat and force every ounce of incantationless casting he could muster in order to seal it enough for him to speak. Forget the throat; his windpipe had been opened up. By the time he'd closed the cut on his neck and reattached the tendons in his right wrist he was utterly exhausted. In fact, his reckoning was that if he'd cast even a single extra Triangle spell in that duel he would've passed out after sealing up his throat and subsequently bled to death on the tiles from the cut on his wrist.
When his maid found him laid there several hours later, tea cold, he told her that he'd cut himself shaving and taken a tumble when he was startled. The blood was quickly cleaned up and the Count was bundled up into his bed. Long after he'd taken several potent potions to promote healing and all of his servants had left him be he sat there, turning his straight razor in both hands as he stared at it.
Try as he might, all he could recall of the attacker were the golden eyes, a vague sensation of 'crimson', and a presence that that could only have been described as sinister.
Dwarf of Bronze: End of Act Two