First off, I tweaked a few things in the last chapter. If you're interested, there's notes about it on the previous chapter, but I only added a few extra details into the interaction with Nora. Nothing of real significance has been changed. I also intend to change a few conversations with Yang, but that's for a later day. I'm trying not to go too crazy with it – the last story I wrote, I ended up rewriting nearly the entire thing to add in a new plot element, and I'm hoping to avoid that mess this time.
I'm also debating starting another fic to run concurrently with this one, but that all depends on how the next few weeks pan out. If I can keep up my current writing pace of getting each of these chapters done in three days, I'll start another one.
So… yandere Nora. Yes? No? I see people not knowing what the heck to think about it, but no definitive voice on whether or not it works. Needless to say, that'll be explored more in the future, but I have no wish to spoil where I go with that.
Chapter Nine: Home
Cardin hated the visitor's chair in his father's study. He couldn't decide if it was supposed to lull him into a relaxed pose or give him the impression that he would drown in its lush folds at any moment. Either way the downy cushions of the red velvet seat felt claustrophobic as a jail cell.
The study was a spacious, well-lit room with no windows and thick walls. A massive oak desk stamped with the Winchester family crest sat in the middle of the room, with row after row of bookshelves, each packed with ledgers, bundles of letters, Council records, and legal documents, standing behind it like sentinels. Rich black carpet covered the floors, and the walls were painted a deep red that glowed in the Dust-light.
Vermillion Winchester sat on the other side of the desk. He wore reading glasses with gold frames that disappeared into his short-cropped blonde hair. In front of him was a stack of papers, which he sifted through and marked up with a fountain pen. He had on a bathrobe colored Winchester red and black. Cardin could see a knife sticking out of one of its sleeves, a hidden blade he was meant to see.
"I hear your grades are improving."
"Yes father. It has taken some time, but I've adjusted to all the reading required."
"Then tell me, what do you think of this letter?"
He slid a paper across the table. Cardin picked it up with numb fingers. He skimmed the middle of the document and found what had captured his father's attention.
"Lord Orgen wishes to add a Mistralian Huntress to the guest list for tomorrow's party?"
"Huntress in training," his father corrected. "This letter arrived two hours after it was made known that you would be in attendance."
Cardin toiled through a few more lines under the pretext of thinking over the situation. "Has she been in contact with my cousin?"
"Unlikely," Vermillion said, "But not impossible."
"It's bait. They want to see how interested we are in this new arrival."
Vermillion smiled and took off his reading glasses. "Which is why you are going to take every opportunity to get close to this woman."
"That will seem heavy-handed given we're avoiding the implication that Weiss and I may become romantically involved."
With a snort, Vermillion said, "Anyone with half a brain knows that would never happen. It wouldn't even serve as a pretext." He brushed his trimmed mustache with a finger and hummed tunelessly to himself. "Perhaps it would be wiser to first see what move they make. If they don't introduce you before dinner, I will have you offer the first course to Lord Orgen, where you may present yourself to this guest of his."
His father held out a hand, and Cardin gave him the letter. He folded it in thirds, stood up from his chair, which had more firm cushions, and went to one of the bookshelves. Without untying the twine that held a stack of letters, he slipped the latest letter in with the others.
"How about your combat practice?" Vermillion asked. "What do you think so far of your odds of winning the Vytal Festival?"
"I don't think Pyrrha will prove as invincible as the tournament experts believe her to be. She seems to think herself so far ahead of the class that she didn't even bother to show up for lessons today."
"Arrogance has often been the demise of the powerful. What of your own training?"
"I was hoping to take advantage of the trip home to do some Dust training without anyone watching. Is Gideon available?"
"He is preparing the training room. You have one hour, then I expect you in your study. I would like you to balance the books on this month's logging operations. Also, try not to use too much, Gravity Dust is getting scarce."
Cardin rose from the seat, bowed, and left the room. The moment the door closed, he sprinted through the mansion, nearly knocked over a maid dusting a chandelier, and slid down the railing to the lower floor. The fake wall at the bottom was slid aside, revealing the cellars and servants' quarters. Porter after porter hauled smoked meats and casks of wine through a hidden passage in the walls of the dining hall to the kitchens off to Cardin's left. Cardin went right, passing the ballroom, and entered the armory.
The first room held racks of weapons and armor, featuring a wide selection of firearms, melee weapons, and the occasional oddity, such as a set of barbed grappling hooks, a set of bird-shaped throwing knives, and a three-barreled pistol. The decorative pieces were arranged at the front, gilt and studded with gems until their luster stung more than their blades. Behind them were the real arms, stoutly built of steel and well-worn by countless hands.
Cardin had left his mace at Beacon, but an identical model waited for him on the changing bench, next to a set of plate armor, leather boots, and a canister of Gravity Dust. When he lifted the canister, it had a strange heft in his hands, rising easily and resisting when he made it stop at eye level. He flicked the Dust hatch on his mace open and attached the canister. Dust rushed into the weapon, and all light left the canister. The mace felt no different in his hands, a sign the weapon's Dust vial wasn't leaking.
Through a stout set of wooden doors, Cardin entered into the Winchester family's combat arena. It was a large, domed room whose every surface was sleek, polished oak. Patches of brighter wood showed where pieces had been replaced. Nicks and holes riddled the walls, but the floor was smooth enough to slide across on his belly.
Gideon was at the other end of the room. A gray, padded vest covered his chest and left his arms bare. Black shorts clung tight to his thighs. Gideon held an axe in each hand, ducked and darted around invisible foes, and wove the axes in intricate patterns, hooking aside an unseen sword, lopping at an imagined spear haft, hacking heads off countless phantom foes.
The door slammed shut behind him. Without breaking his momentum, Gideon spun towards Cardin and bowed setting the axes to the floor.
"You appear well, master Cardin. Would you care to practice against the spear and shield again?"
"I think I have practiced enough against that foe. Don the gauntlets."
"As you command."
Even with his nose as damaged as it was, Cardin could smell the sweat dripping off Gideon's arms, yet he could hardly hear the man breathe. Within moments, he was back in the arena, sporting black and yellow knuckledusters on each hand. Gideon cocked them back, and shotgun rounds whirred in the chambers surrounding them.
Without a signal or word of warning, Gideon barreled forward, propelling himself with shotgun bursts from the gauntlets. Cardin drew back and raised his mace to block a right cross, pivoted, and kicked at Gideon's chest. The servant grabbed him by the ankle, whirled, and threw him across the room. Cardin rolled up, mace ready to block, but Gideon kept his distance.
Inching forward and watching every twitch of his opponent's body, Cardin prepared his assault. His finger hovered over the trigger that would activate the Dust stored in the vial. He feinted forward, faked an over-extension of his left leg, and taunted, but Gideon remained immobile as a statue.
Cardin crossed an invisible line, at the point where a single step would put Gideon within the optimal range for an uppercut. Gideon raced forward, right fist cocked back for a blow to the gut. Cardin took a step back. Gideon switched fists, coming in hard with a left hook to the face. The punch was deliberately aimed at his cheek, rolling past his fake, unprotected nose. Twirling with the force of the blow, Cardin brought the mace around and struck Gideon in the shoulder. The servant backed away and rubbed at the struck area, but Cardin knew better than to believe the blow had hurt him.
"Your reflexes are improving," Gideon said.
"I've been practicing," Cardin grunted back. Step by step, he went in a circle around Gideon. The servant shifted to keep Cardin in front. He tried feinting right and darting left, but Gideon met his overhead strike with one gauntlet and planted the other in Cardin's ribcage. Wheezing and reeling from the blow, Cardin accidentally pressed the button. His weapon shone with purple light, and it nearly flew out of his hands.
Not one to waste Dust, Cardin extended the chain. It uncoiled like a snake, hovering at a uniform height above the ground, just below his shoulder. With a flick, Cardin sent the ball barreling towards Gideon. He sidestepped, and the ball hit the back wall with a deafening crunch of wood. A panel slipped out, revealing the sturdy stonework behind it.
Gideon ran towards him, but Cardin retracted the chain and wove it around himself. As Gideon approached, Cardin whipped his hand sideways, and the chain looped around him. Gideon ducked, rolled, and came up a few feet behind Cardin.
With his left hand, he pulled on the chain with all his might. His right whirled back and swung the butt of his mace haft at Gideon's neck. The left gauntlet blocked the blow, and the right looped itself around the chain, cutting Cardin off from the blunt end.
Cardin dropped the haft and lunged for a chain nearer the end. With a yank, the ball was back in his hand, along with twenty feet of chain. A wild idea formed itself in his mind, and before he could think it through, he hurled the ball in an arc behind Gideon. The ball looped around one chain suspended in midair, swung back behind Gideon's legs, and landed in Cardin's other hand.
A tug at both ends brought the whole chain back behind Gideon's knees, sweeping the fighter off his feet. Cardin rushed forward and struck with the ball of the mace, once, twice, three times. Gideon caught the attacks on his gauntlets, and one of them cracked, spilling shotgun shells on the floor.
"Good!" Gideon said as he struggled in the chain. "But tangling your weapon like that is risky. What are you going to do when I get out?"
The chains fell away as he sprang to his feet. Cardin recovered the haft and tugged on it, but the chain tightened into a knotted ball, leaving him with a scant ten feet to work with. An experimental whip felt clumsy and uncoordinated, and the ball flailed uselessly.
Using his Semblance, he pushed directly into the chain. The force of the shove made the knot balloon outward, and with some deft movements of his hands, the ball untangled his chain. Through this, Gideon attempted to fire shots at the ball and at Cardin, but he let his Aura take the punishment.
Cardin used the remaining minute's worth of dust to keep Gideon at a distance, forcing him to spend his remaining shotgun shells. The purple light enveloping the ball and chain flickered. The weapon's dead weight hit the ground with a rattling clang. Not wasting a second, Gideon bounded over the inert chains. Cardin whipped the chain side to side as he drew it back towards him, trying to catch Gideon's ankles, but the nimble fighter was on Cardin before his chain had fully retracted. Cardin yanked, and the ball flew into Gideon's back. As the servant stumbled, Cardin brought up a knee and caught him in the gut.
Gideon looped one arm under Cardin's leg, leaned back, and lifted Cardin's leg high in the air. Grunting from the pain, Cardin stood on his tiptoes with the other leg, fully retracted the chain, and swung his mace at Gideon's thigh. The blow was weak, but it shifted him just enough for Cardin to roll out of his grip.
From there, the fight transitioned into a slow, methodical exchange of blows, with minutes of foot shifting and positioning as they fought a silent war for superior spacing, Gideon creeping past Cardin's reach and Cardin backing away to stay out of range of the empty gauntlets. The moment one found an advantage, whether it was a stumble over a shotgun shell or a poor reaction to a feint, one of them would strike a blow, the other would counter or back away, and the cycle would continue.
As the hour approached, Gideon changed tactics. Gone was the neat, tidy footwork as he hurtled towards Cardin. Blow after blow rained on his head, stomach, and thighs as Cardin backpedaled and kept his mace in front of him. Gideon grabbed the mace by its haft, pivoted, and yanked the weapon from Cardin's grip. Cardin let the weapon leave his hands and followed up with a jab to Gideon's jaw. The older man took the blow and returned it with interest in the form of an uppercut that drove the wind from Cardin's lungs.
"That's time," Gideon said, rubbing his jaw. "Nice follow-up on that disarm."
Cardin checked his scroll. He had the tiniest sliver of Aura remaining, while Gideon, though forming a puddle on the floor, seemed no more exhausted than when the battle had started.
"Yang doesn't fight like that," Cardin said. "She always goes for the face if she's mad and aims for the chest if she isn't."
"Use that, but be ready for anything. Shall I help you get cleaned up?"
With Gideon's assistance, Cardin stripped out of his armor, hopped in the shower, and found a lush bathrobe waiting for him. Wrapping himself in the family colors, Cardin made his way to his own study. It was a miniature copy of his father's, complete with its own suffocating chair for visitors, and a separate one reserved for his father and other distinguished guests.
A servant had just set down a tray of fruit and a pitcher of water for him when Cardin entered the room. With a bow, the woman left, closing the door behind her. Cardin inspected each item on the plate and poured some of the water into his palm. Nothing had been touched. Only then did Cardin tuck into the food, cramming whole bites of fresh melon and strawberry without tasting them. He drained half the pitcher, belched, and settled into his chair, this one with a firmness to his liking, but a touch small around his shoulders.
The logging reports were neatly bundled in a folder on his desk, and a set of fountain pens were arranged in a metal stand next to his writing hand. His reading difficulties translated to the realm of numbers, but under the guise of checking his calculations, he had a ready excuse for taking longer to process the paperwork. That meant his work had to be perfect, but such was always the case.
He sorted through employee wages and benefits packages, capital equipment expenses, part replacements, and replanting. Extra attention went to making sure that two trees went up for every one chopped down and found that another three-hundred were planted in surplus.
The next day dawned cold and bleak. Cardin groaned as he rolled out of bed and stretched the aches out of his muscles. Old, yellow bruises dotted his chest, but his Aura had taken care of the bumps on his face and arms. For good measure, a servant came in, checked him over before he put his clothes on, and dabbed concealer on each of the bruises on his chest.
He spent the morning and early afternoon assisting his father and various chaplains with preparations for the evening party. Every portion of meat and alcohol that left the cellars was accounted for, and the seats were tallied up twice.
When two o clock tolled, his thoughts flitted to Blake and her impending date with Jaune. He chuckled wryly, thinking he'd trade places with her in a heartbeat, and went back to watching the chefs.
The first guests, the less important ones arrived shortly before four, unseated, minor dukes and more influential persons of interest within the cogs of gubernatorial machinery, chiefs of police, news network managers, corporate executives and the like. These crowded the parlor just off the mansion's entry hall. Servants with hor d'oeuvres and small glasses of wine circled around as these persons of interest discussed current affairs and the latest scandals, handling words like rapiers as they feinted and parried, each person feeling out the others around them, attempting to ferret out secrets and alliances. Cardin walked among them as though snipers were lurking beyond the windows, analyzing every word that passed his ears and offering as little conversation as he could politely manage.
The chief of police from Vale's southern district commented on the champagne sent to him, which Cardin saw was noted by other officials in the vicinity. He was too good a man to waste, so instead of heaping praise on him, Cardin preserved his position and his neck by admonishing him for letting those Faunus loose. The chief was smart enough to bow his head and apologize for misinterpreting his orders.
The more important guests came just after five. Each person of note was announced to the sudden hush of dozens of expectant guests, and a flurry of whispers rippled in their wake. They would linger among the lesser guests for a moment, whispering in the ear of one man or having a loud conversation with such and such person, adding yet another thread to the tapestry of Vale's political intrigue, before retiring to a private salon with Duke Winchester.
The arrival of Duke Orgen brought complete silence to the guests. Cardin waited a respectable distance away, well within distance of the Duke and his entourage, his two eldest sons, his wife, and a few political hangers-on.
His Huntress guest stood out like a blazing sun blotting out lesser stars. Her luscious black hair sparkled like obsidian, and her eyes glowed with fire. The black dress she wore accentuated every curve and offered a view of ample cleavage without drawing attention to it. Her heels clicked on the oaken floor as she strode forward, taking in the crowd with a disinterested, flat stare. When her eyes flitted over Cardin, they darted back, and a slight smile curled her thin, lush lips.
His father and Duke Orgen exchanged greetings, but Cardin was not called for. More guests arrived, the Montblancs, which Cardin was obliged to speak with at length, the Cirilians, which prompted him to melt into the crowd, and many others that merited some form of greeting or polite, brief conversations like the tips of rapiers brushing each other.
At six, the guests were ushered into the dining hall, starting with the most distinguished Dukes at the head table, followed by lesser dignitaries further from the kitchens. The appetizers had already been laid out, and servants waited off to the side with the first course held in silver platters. With a wave of Duke Vermillion's hand, Cardin took a tray from one of the servants and brought it to Duke Orgen. As he carved the Wellington to Orgen's desired thickness, he kept an eye on Duke Montblanc, who appeared vexed, but not surprised, by Cardin's attention to this Duke.
His other eye remained on the Huntress. She studied him intently while appearing to study the wine in her glass, being just obvious enough about it to make obvious the fact that she was being discreet in studying him. Curious about this display of political prowess, Cardin shuffled the carving order and served her second. The sons of Orgen frowned at him, but a grin lit up the Duke's face.
The guest examined the pastry-wrapped beef on her plate with a raised eyebrow. "A bold move. Do you think I'm important enough to serve before a Duke's eldest son?"
"It would be impolite of him to keep a beautiful woman waiting. I hope that he feels gratitude that I have extended you this courtesy on his behalf."
"My, quite the gentleman," she said without the faintest hint of blush on her pale cheeks. "I will take a second. I have quite the appetite tonight."
As he served another portion, he turned to the Duke and asked to be introduced.
"I shall introduce myself," she cut in, holding out her left hand. "I am Cinder Fall."
Cardin studied the offered hand for a moment. For all that it had a stunning combination of tenderness and muscle, and for all her fingernails looked like pearls, it was the fact that she had proffered this hand that troubled him. Custom dictated that even left-handed individuals offer the right hand, as the left hand denotes sinister motive and treachery. Yet, it seemed a genuinely honest gesture in this company, an acknowledgement that they will invariably attempt to deceive and sabotage each other.
He took her left hand with his own. "Cardin Winchester. It is a pleasure to meet you."
Her skin felt ablaze with inner fire, suffusing his own hand with tingling warmth.
"The pleasure is all mine. I look forward to speaking further with you at Beacon."
Before he could process that nugget of information, the elder son demanded his portion, and Cardin was called away to serve the rest of Duke Orgen's guests.
His father was disappointed by the lack of concrete information, but he had plenty of other opportunities to ferret out plots and divine hidden intentions as he made rounds with other tables. Many Dukes, in particular Montblanc and others with marriage prospects, discreetly questioned him on his relationship with Weiss, to which he always mentioned that pursuing a proposal with a foreign family of little political influence, let alone a marriage, would be folly, and they had no reason to fear any competition from the Schnees for his hand.
By the manner in which they asked, Cardin could tell which had received their information directly from the Cirilians, and from that detail, he was able to ask more direct questions to pin down how exactly they were connected with the rival family. Many were obvious, either through family ties or business arrangements, but a few had strings leading to upcoming Council votes that could swing important bills. He made careful note of each and whispered them to his father over untasted bites of food.
It was nearly ten in the evening by the time dessert had been served. Cardin felt as though he had ran ten miles and read a week's worth of Oobleck's assignments. A dull throb settled in his head, which the wine only made worse. Conversations blurred into one another, but by this point in the night, all the talk had devolved into current events and trifles. Torchwick's latest string of dust robberies was on every pair of lips, with many muttering how he should know better than to stir up trouble. Others discussed the upsurge in White Fang activity and how it would further escalate Dust prices.
The guests started leaving at half past ten, the lower seats first, until seven Dukes remained at the main table, each nursing glasses of wine. Their minor retainers left with the crowd, but sons and the occasional distinguished guest remained with them. Cinder was among their number, appearing sober and collected despite the empty glass of wine in front of her.
Under other circumstances, this collection of Dukes – Winchester, Montblanc, Cirilian, Orgen, Virdt, Morado, and Aurem – would be enough to start a civil war. This collection held nearly a quarter of the votes through their titles and had strings on the rest. Instead, thanks to the inebriation of the guests, the conversation turned to the Vytal festival, and the news of Pyrrha's struggles in school circulated the table with chuckles into wine glasses.
Only one did not laugh. Through the haze of alcohol, Cardin noticed that Cinder studied every word said by the seven Dukes. Her eyes darted like falcons from one man to the next as they laid out plans for the festival and their bets on who would take it. Yang was well-favored among them, but a few raised their glasses and made polite assertations that he would do his family proud.
Just past midnight, the Dukes departed together, each escorted out by weary servants propping them up with a shoulder and a pair of guards with hands on weapons, watching every shadow and turning towards the barest whisper of feet on stone.
To Cardin's tired surprise, Orgen had no guards, but Cinder radiated enough lethal intent to make his fingers itch for his mace. He doubted that a hidden blade would fit in her dress, but he'd seen fingernails sharp enough to cut through stone, and hers, for all their beauty, looked no less formidable.
As the servants cleared the tables, one took Cardin's arm and guided him to his bedroom. He stripped Cardin out of his suit, tucked him into bed, and left Cardin to his dreamless sleep.