"Please, help yourself to some refreshments."
After climbing two staircases—which Morgan Blackbriar navigated with ease, his cane tapping along with each step—the group arrived at a spacious boardroom. As Blackbriar had said, the large windows gave an excellent view out over the shipyard and the port—the source of both the High Table's power and their wealth.
Servants—or perhaps employees was the right word, given these were Blackbriar's personal offices—bustled about the lower floors, shuffling papers, carrying letters, and speaking on the devilish telephones that the Collective were so awfully fond of.
One of the contraptions was mounted to the wall behind Blackbriar, and though Damian had seen one before, he could never fathom how the strange horn-like device with its cold, metallic casing could be used to communicate someone's voice to distant places.
Then again, transporting things to distant places was exactly the power of the Angel of the Deep, and the very reason why the High Table commanded such sway over the kingdom's economy.
Damian dragged his eyes back to the large, oval table, where an employee had laid out several pitchers of water and an array of sandwiches and dried fruits. The gas lighting on the walls sputtered, casting flickering shadows over the room.
"I assure you, I have no reason to poison my guests," Blackbriar insisted, misinterpreting Damian's hesitation.
The same server had placed a steaming cup of tea before Blackbriar. With uncanny precision, the blind man placed three sugar cubes into his drink, a dash of milk, and stirred with a fine silver spoon. For a moment, the only noise in the boardroom was the gentle chink of the spoon against the side of the cup.
"I'm grateful for your kindness, Mister Blackbriar, but I believe in eating only three square meals a day," Damian lied. "Perhaps you'll have to invite me for dinner another time."
"Indeed. Rather a shame I did not receive an invitation to your little party tonight. I hear it's the talk of the town—well, not this town, of course, but you understand me. I assume you're not here to hand-deliver a letter? If so, I fear I must ask you to read it aloud, unless you would like to humiliate me so."
Blackbriar's lips twitched in a wry smirk.
He's playing with me.
Damian seethed, and it took every ounce of his self-control to hold back a sharp retort. Every conversation with this man was turning into a sparring match that only left the Crown Prince feeling haggard.
If I'm going to get anything out of this meeting, I have to stop letting Blackbriar toy with me like this.
Damian shuffled forward in his seat. He sat opposite Blackbriar at the table; Lynn and Dominic were on either side of the prince. The First Seat was accompanied by no guards nor aides, as though mocking Damian's need for protection.
Is he really so confident? Or is this just another one of his games?
"I would like to discuss the matter of the day," Damian said, attempting to take control of the conversation. "As you know, I intended to meet with the Fifth Seat today, to hear the High Table's concerns regarding my father's proposed tax policy. May I ask why you sought to replace the Fifth?"
Blackbriar set his cup down and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. His milky eyes bored straight into Damian's, sending yet another shiver down the prince's spine.
"Do you truly find my decision so strange? I admit, the Fifth Seat governs Resource Management, but as the First Seat, all Financial Operations are within my purview. And of course, with such an esteemed guest coming to discuss the matter, I could hardly leave the duty to someone of such lowly status."
"Simply having an opportunity for civil discourse is honor enough."
Damian forced out the empty platitudes like he was choking on poison.
"Shall I take it that you intend to represent the entirety of the High Table, then?"
"You shall," Blackbriar responded, taking a dignified sip from his teacup. "The Table is currently quite busy, so I'm afraid they simply couldn't be gathered in one place today."
Damian had been attempting to probe for information about the Ninth Seat—the missing commander of the Apostles—but Blackbriar's smooth defense offered no chances for further attack. Exhaling just a little more than necessary, Damian tried to loosen his expression into something vaguely resembling "amicable."
"Well then, I assume a highly accomplished and educated man such as yourself understands the basic premise behind the proposal, but I fear you're missing the bigger picture."
For just a moment—a single moment—Blackbriar's face spasmed, as though a muscle had been pulled taught through his cheekbone. Then the moment passed, and he was passive once more, the very embodiment of calm repose.
"Perhaps," he said slowly, while refilling his teacup, "you would enlighten me?"
Damian swallowed. The outcome of the entire meeting rested on his argument—and he was beginning to feel like this was a fight he couldn't win. He wet his lips, and with a quick prayer to the Angel, began his attack.
"His Majesty's changes to the exportation tax would most definitely affect your bottom line—that, I cannot deny. But you must be aware that the kingdom's finances have been equally impacted by the High Table's grip upon the shipping of goods."
Damian spread his hands flat on the table.
"Tenebrae has been given many legal and financial exceptions that your smaller rivals would no doubt consider unfair. The Crown has been extraordinarily considerate to your position, and allowed the High Table to operate with relative freedom for decades. Yet, Tenebrae does not represent all Rosweiss, nor does the High Table represent every Sidralian."
Damian swallowed, his throat dry, trying desperately to remember the speech he'd crafted with Gunther and Leon.
"His Majesty's proposal would simply place a small levy upon the work Tenebrae performs—a balanced compensation, in truth. For the benefit of all our people, we can no longer afford for Tenebrae to profit at the cost of Sidralis itself."
At the end of Damian's impassioned speech, Blackbriar swallowed the last of his tea.
He pushed his chair back and stood, tapping his cane on the ground once. With one hand behind his back, the First Seat walked over to the glass windows, the midday sun glaring off his white suit.
Blackbriar cleared his throat, and when he spoke, it was with a distant, almost wistful tone.
"Join me, Your Highness. There's something you need to see."