Finally got around to that omake about the Elector Meet.
The Count Is Dead
BoneyM's Advisor Quest omake
The rearmost table, tucked into a little alcove by the organizers to better forget it existed, housed a sullen pile of robes. A snifter of brandy - good stuff imported from Ostland at great expense - sat untouched in the center of the table. The table lamp's light that glittered in the glass like a dozen tiny stars entirely failed to illuminate the spectre save for the occasional shine within the depths of the cavernous hat.
The flame suspended over the lamp oil flickered like it was trying to crawl out and escape, throwing strange shadows against the walls. Most disconcerting was perhaps the shadow on the wall behind her, a hulking thing that shifted and flickered with the flame, a beast with variable horns and claws.
The tables nearest to that one stood empty or their inhabitants drawn and quiet. It was as though the creature in the Hat spread its own gloom like dark tendrils amongst its neighbors. Horst could fancifully imagine a chill like fog emanating out to where he sat two tables away. Like the moor beasts of childhood tales, that crept out under cover of night, bringing the chill of the moor with them to freeze naughty children in their beds.
His bodyguard and friend Malte, a barbaric Ostlander himself, knocked back another brandy uncaring of both childhood fears and the judging stares of nearby nobles.
"Caught your eye did she? You are a braver man than me, my friend," Malte toasted his boss before quaffing several gold coins worth of brandy. He'd said before the Meet that he intended to 'get his money's worth', whatever that meant to a man who was stuffing his face free of charge thanks to the movers and shakers of the Empire.
"Oh, god no," Horst said feelingly. The soft, well-read women of Altdorf were much more to his taste than whatever that was.
"I wouldn't be looking to fill the hole a Van Hal left in a woman," Malte mused, ignoring Horst's protestations. "The size difference alone!"
Horst wrinkled his nose. His Ostlander bodyguard could be positively filthy at times. The only thing he luxuriated in more than his own crudity was-
"Aye, the Van Hals're different men from you and me," Malte said soberly, holding up his brandy to the light as though a toast. "Giants of men. Heroes. Larger than life, making up a debt to the Empire that can never be repaid. But by the gods, none try harder than them to make it so."
Oh. Horst bowed his head, chastened in his thoughts. Even a man like Malte had heroes. The only thing the rough Ostlander liked more than indulging his own crudity was history, and the heroes that could be found in every page of the Empire's long and illustrious past.
"Why Horst," the bastard said innocently, "what did you think I meant?"
The only thing the bastard liked more than crudity and history was making fun of Horst.
"So she's the old Elector Count's, what, lover?" Horst said doggedly, determined not to give his amused bodyguard more satisfaction than he'd already gotten.
"So 'tis said," Malte nodded. His voice took on the dramatic cadence of an experienced storyteller. "They say when the Hunter Count fell on the push to Castle Drakenhof, Dame Weber held the line alone until the attack was over, and carried him from the field herself. She would let none administer to him but her, and when she could not save him, she bound the tent with fell magicks so that any who dared to desecrate her lover's body would join him in death."
Horst was aware that tales grew in the telling, but even accounting for hyperbole that was… quite a tale.
"She went on to lead the war into Drakenhof, and personally oversaw its destruction until not one stone stood upon another. She hasn't been seen much lately, but I expect that she came to ensure Van Hal's successor has the right stuff." Malte clapped a hand to Horst's shoulder. "You've got the chops, boss. Don't let some witch-woman from the frontier put a scare into you."
Horst shrugged urbanely, taking a sip of his own brandy and letting the burn sear its way down his throat and warm his belly. It was very good brandy, not that he was a connoisseur of such things. He could fake it well enough if he had to; his time at Court had done wonders for his ability to bullshit. Did he, perhaps taste flowers and pear behind the burn of the alcohol? With a nose of dried fruit, yes yes. And so on, like that.
"I think I have the support, but Stirland is a rough land. They might want a hero rather than a bureaucrat."
Horst could lead if necessary but he was no more than a passable warrior, instead making his name for some years in the Reikland court, and later as the advisor to two different Elector Counts. After the Ostland Elector-Count had released him from service he'd been snapped up by Talabecland for a number of years. Trade, diplomacy and seeing to the heart of things, those were his talents, along with a certain talent for being in the right place at the right time.
"Well that's what you have me for, isn't it," Malte told him, stomping a booted foot on the stone floor. "Nobody really expects the Elector Count themselves to chop a heretic in half, do they?
"True enough," Horst smiled. Malte was the most gifted fighter he'd ever seen swing an axe, and he'd been pleasantly surprised when the mercenary had followed him to Talabecland those years ago and now, to Stirland.
"You'll do fine," Malte reiterated. His eyes gleamed slyly as he added, "And if you think you're man enough to take up her as well as the mantle, more power to you, I say!"
"I think the candidate from Averland is going to speak," Horst said, stubbornly trying to change the subject. The Averland man was as grizzled as any bull or ram. Horst didn't actually make any of the jokes that came to mind; he'd heard them all in Ostermark, and often enough when Malte got into his cups, but a gentleman didn't repeat slanderous gossip about what the men of Averland might get up to with their cattle. No matter how funny it was.
He shifted uncomfortably. It was, he hoped, only his imagination of gleaming eyes from the shadow of that hat boring into the back of his head. Wizards could be damned useful, but for all he knew 'Dame Weber' really could burn a hole through him with her stare alone.
