'What should I eat…?'
He paced around the house. His fingers riding against the wall.
A cozy autumn morning.
Sitting on a simple, dark wood, chocolate leather Bergère, and already dressed, Roderin pondered, seriously, as to what his breakfast should be.
'I'm not that hungry…'
His feet tapped on the carnelian-red rug. It looked cold out… but there was no reason to light the fireplace… he had to go to the ministry.
He threw his head back, his hands over his eyes.
'Hah… What if I tell Alphonse I quit?'
Freeing a hand —his eyes still closed—, he felt around the side-table for something…
A book. Its worn dark-brown cover unmarked.
'Valéry Arouet, Théologie Naturelle… I was reading this, wasn't I?' He looked at the title page, beautifully printed in bold black ink.
Eyeing its pages, Roderin found some torn parchment he had used for a bookmark.
'Was I really this far in…? I can't remember…'
'When tracing a line of time to the creation of a doctrine such as Natural Theology […] It is no contemporary phenomena that which prescribes proof of God, and assertion of his nature, to the faculties of reason and the marvelous effects of a mind well applied. One can, with fact, make evident the existence of scholasticks whose most illuminant designs are built upon little more than logical decompositions.
On his "Contra Fura" Hierophant Theodosius Igninus…'
He put the book down.
'Now I feel like sleeping…' Roderin rubbed his eyes. 'Coffee… I'll have coffee.'
Rising towards the kitchen, he set some water to boil. The freshly ground beans left behind a pleasant perfume; a Cyssanian variety, quite costly to import… aromatic, delicious.
Some lukewarm water first, to not burn the powder…
A single sugar cube.
'Ah… Incredible…' Roderin thought as he took the first sip, smiling. 'I need little more for now.'
He looked out into the street while finishing the cup.
'The life of a minister is not as busy as I thought… Not mindlessly placid either. Perhaps it is because we're not at war …' The archeologist prayed, in his mind, for Alphonse to not wake up, today —or any day, really—, cripplingly bored, and declare a campaign with pleasure for a purpose…
The cup lay empty.
'I should take most the day off today… I haven't visited the Roumbidón lately… I'd like to break the news of my… anointment? to those three before the papers do… The editorials should still be busy with the commotion at the rue Vuillard and rue des blesses.'
He looked at the coffee shadows… the dark, near black marks left on the porcelain's bottom.
'Alphonse moved to the palace, with Heos and Marenisse in tow… I suppose we won't see each other privately for a while? Hum… No… I'm sure he'll think of something; he won't stand the overtly royal ambiance…'
Through the window he could see: the sky back to its leaden coat, dressed in snowy furs, like a northern dame.
"I wonder when it'll start to snow…" A whisper.
He missed the east's torrid air.
*
"The commissioner recommends you report to His Majesty. He considers the stationing of an augmented garrison along the Leonides, and, especially in Blöeplet, as prudent. The numbers he demands are absurd, of course… Nonetheless, reading the report, it does look to be a necessary deterrent." Samuel gave his thoughts on the document.
Roderin eyed it, moving from page to page.
"Do you believe the Loegrians to truly be overstepping? Or is it just empty posturing?"
"Incidents such as these are not uncommon along the colonial borders… None, yet, have escalated into direct confrontation; His Majesty's temperament… his colonial policy makes foreign powers pay dearly for such evident instances of disregard at Romanse's borders… It is still concerning, or rather, it perplexes one… who knows as to what they intend with this play…"
"Hm…"
'Bothersome.' He immediately thought after finishing the report. 'Is it a distraction… a warning? It would appear, any way you look at it, as if they were preparing to occupy Blöeplet…'
He sighed.
"Please have this sent to His Majesty via a Hierón courier…" He scratched his brow. "These are old news… it had to cross the sea, so, who knows? Perhaps Blöeplet fell and we're at war, yet to know…" A lighthearted chuckle made light of the uncertain situation. "Or the Loegrians just enjoy scares."
Samuel's expression remained still.
Roderin spoke again.
"Let's hope the governor holds out if anything goes awry… Please pester the courier for a meeting as soon as possible… with Minister Hessiah et Visurgis as well, if possible." He stopped in his tracks. "I doubt it will be all that useful… His Majesty will act as soon as he hears the news…" His foot tapped incessantly against the floor. "A headache… It isn't my choice, either way…"
He handed the report to Samuel.
"Let us go to Bassáth… I'll clear the air and go take the day."
"Very well, Minister."
Once again, their steps echoed. After some silence, the attendant spoke up.
"Minister de Lamartine… If I may…"
"Please, Musnier… don't you think…." He racked his head for an excuse. 'Yes!' He had it. "Addressing me as Minister de Lamartine is rather… costly in, uhm… matters of time?"
"I… do not quite see what you are alluding to, Minister de Lamartine."
"I mean to say that, due to the amount of times you must refer to me by "Minister de Lamartine", our conversations may end up… bloated; especially if we are discussing matters of importance. It would be more… austere! Yes, austere! If you were to call me simply as… Lamartine, for example?"
Musnier's expression remained steely.
"I am sorry, Minister de Lamartine. I'm afraid propriety —as in, our respective stations— demands correct address."
Roderin hid a choke.
"Ah… I see." Clearing his throat he continued. "Well, what was it? What you wanted to say."
"I aimed to recommend you to… not be overly empathetic with Viscount Bassath; it may be misconstrued as an insult; even if this is not your intention. Explicitly kind, mild mannered approaches are, usually, understood as sardonic attacks on a noble's competence."
"Ah… well. I'll have that in mind."
'Even kindness is so complicated…?'
*
"Minister de Lamartine. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Bassáth rose from his desk and put down his pipe. Smoldering still, it filled the room with the light scent of expensive tobacco.
Roderin held his hand out.
'Has he lost weight…?' Perhaps slightly slimmer, the Viscount looked, still, to be overweight. His gregarious air had dissipated since they had last seen each other.
"I simply aimed to visit you, Viscount Bassáth."
Their hands met.
"Please, sit." The viscount pointed to a simple oak wood chair.
He went back down, behind his desk.
Roderin settled down as well.
"I do not wish to interrupt your duties for long…"
'Shit, did that sound like an insult…? I'm sure he has not much to do as a diplomat to Verdanaie…' Roderin cursed, as he realized a blunder too late.
"However, due to the circumstances of my appointment as minister, I feared there would be tension between us. That, I believe, would benefit no camp… it could also lead to problems in the functioning of the ministry…"
'Ok, ok… not too bad. Let's see…'
Bassáth's eyebrow rose, an expression of… pity? on his face.
'That expression…' Roderin noticed.
"Minister de Lamartine, even if I wished to kill you, I doubt I could do much." The viscount led the pipe to his lips. "I really do not understand what you are trying to masquerade this meeting as…" Puffing out a cloud of smoke, his pity remained.
Roderin's expression froze, not knowing what to answer.
"Whatever could you mean? Viscount Bassáth…" He managed to muster out, maintaining composure.
"Hm… I see. You genuinely believe you wish to… "clear the air"?" His pipe rose, as if accenting his words. "No." He smiled. "You see, in reality, underneath this pretense, you, quite simply, feel second-hand embarrassment at His Majesty's outburst, and wished to surreptitiously apologize…" He spoke as if Roderin were made of stone. "A good man… yet, this is the problem with green diplomats… unknowing of even their own motivations, much less the whims of others, they stumble about, blind." He shook his head, as smoke sputtered out of his nose. "Minister de Lamartine, think of this matter thoroughly. Would I really sink my station further for vain pettiness? especially if it meant obstructing His Majesty's little follower?"
'What…? Does he know me and Alphonse are friends? Or does he say it so because of the Fylassein? Shouldn't he be under the impression that this is a ploy of the noblesse? Wait, what would he even think of…' Roderin's thought whizzed from side to side in his head, attempting to calculate what exactly Bassáth knew.
"That's it, let those gears turn…" Another puff, another cloud. "So I was right, you are under Alphonse's thumb."
These words, finally, pulled the minister out of his stupor, his eyes focusing.
"Wha-what do you mean?" He looked at the Viscount's eyes, lost.
Bassáth simply… burst out in laughter.
"Hahaha! Oh, God, Alphonse is a real sadist, isn't he? Hahaha!" He held his belly, his pipe on the table, smoldering.
He tapped the table a couple times, then cleared his eyes of some nascent tears.
"Minister, I had my doubts… It was obvious that d'Ruissaumbe had a hand, His Majesty as well… but this confirms it. Ha…" A couple dying chuckles interrupted his words. "I now understand why he placed me in the ministry…"
'Shit, shit. I was too much of a fool, what if he te—'
"Quite the strained face, eh? Worry not, Minister… I intend to keep this information from the noblesse… Out of pettiness; this time it does not cost me anything…" He looked into the pipe, the tobacco made ashes. "It is also in my best interests… Contact some Hierón handler if you wish, or tell His Majesty directly." His hand waved as if shooing off a dog, uninterested.
"Viscount Bassath, Ha…" Roderin ordered his thoughts, a hand on his brows, stifling a headache. "I must apologize…"
"Apologize? No, not really. You blundered —better now than later. It has nothing to do with me and it matters not… I'm not an enemy of the crown or alike." He uninterestedly packed tobacco into the now empty pipe. "Allow me to advise you… After a fuck up as this, double down, or, well, brush it past and steel yourself; do not show your belly, especially to an…" he searched for the word. "opponent. In negotiations, especially, composure is paramount."
Once again, the smell of tobacco filled the office.
Roderin scratched his brow.
"I'll take the advice to heart, Viscount."
"Very well. Now, if you'll excuse me, Minister, I must return to my duties."
The door opened, then closed, fast after.
Musnier waited by its side.
Roderin sighed.
"Well, as you recommended, I was not overly empathetic."
"How did it go, then?" Musnier questioned.
"Uh… Ok, it went ok…" He looked questioningly at his attendant, who, despite the neutral expression, revealed some indeterminate emotion. "You knew…" He accused, half in jest.
"Yes." Samuel closed his eyes. "It was a… pedagogical experience. You are all the better for it."
He remembered Bassáth's words.
"You are my attendant, Musnier, do not play tricks behind my back." His voice turning cold.
"My apologies, Minister de Lamartine, it was terribly improper of me." Samuel's sight pulled to the ground.
Roderin maintained a stern face, then sighed, again.
"Be as it may… I'm leaving for now. Do what I asked of you." He waved at him to go.
Musnier bowed, then walked away.
Thinking, his friend, the king, appeared in his mind.
'No man is two dimensional… so superficial as to be made or unmade in a single adjective…'
The voice resounded as he turned to leave.
*
The Roumbidón was sparsely filled. In one of the only occupied tables, three men discussed a copy of that day's paper. Empty cups in front of the three, as they chattered away.
"It must be a namesake?!"
"What? Are you an idiot?" Anton asked.
Frederik merely snorted.
"Relax, I know it's him." He reclined, his hands holding his head's back. "I'm just awestruck… the gentleman de Lamartine became a minister… I never took him for someone with much an interest in politics." He sardonically assured.
"I suppose this was the "employment opportunity"." Mikael thought it over.
"God… but that was over a year ago, no? Are you telling me the nobles wanted to kick Bassáth off of Affairs since that long ago?" Frederik wondered.
"That is what truly makes no sense to me… Isn't Bassáth a noble crony? How did Roderin even come to replace him? He's a noble, yes, but…"
"Mikael, don't think too hard about it. Politics are little more than speculation. That is, if one isn't nobility… even then…" Anton read over the article, again. It gave little information and was, mostly, theorizing; opinion pieces littered the copy, on this or that possibility, this or that hypothesis as to why Roderin de Lamartine was chosen, and why Otto Alle Bassáth was moved to a diplomat's post.
Roderin's life was examined; the little that was public, of course, as most of his exploits had gone on about outside the continent, and were reported by his own pen, in fragments, scattered across archeological and anthropological journals.
However… his name, his age, his status as a baronet, his early enrollment and graduation at Vanus University, his employment in the Royal East-Mariannic Company's archeological wing… These were all the, somewhat superficial, morsels of knowledge the papers had acquired on him.
Known vultures, the kingdom's journalists speculated as to the secrecy of this rather niche academic. Some proposed that his backer, or backers —powerful noblesse personages, of course—, held his information under watch… to who knows what ends.
Others hypothesized that, across his travels and activities in, admittedly, one of the grandest colonial arms of the kingdom, he had endeared himself to some aristocrat with interests staked in the eastern and southern colonies. Now, planning to expand then into the new world as well, he had pushed for de Lamartine's installment into Affairs.
A known critic of noble privileges alleged: this was a move geared, mainly, at the absorption of Neue Noblesse into the broader interests of the blue-blooded estate. With their ancestral positions threatened by the Hellian's illustrés, the old Noblesse aims to shift the political allegiance of baronet families into their own, erasing their virtuous loyalty to the nation, starting by a gesture like this one: posing a minor baronet onto the chair of minister.
In fact, the Fylassein Fatae —in which an unknown character and the youngest prince had been protagonists— held some months ago — a year?—, had come up once again in the papers. Strangely, none of the numerous attendants had recognized the custodian —or at least no one willing to share with the press—, a figure estranged from the political stage of the kingdom, surely. Some postulated this new Minister to be the mystery man, although with little proof and much inferences, as his visage seemed to vaguely correspond with the figure seen that day, in the Cathedral's altar.
As for Bassáth's deposition, an unending gamma of theories were also born. From corruption to retirement, to strange unseen schemes… the speculation was unending.
It was all the more impressive, as coverage of the madness that had taken hold of the capital not long ago also littered the papers. The carrion had much rot to eat.
"This is the reason he has been absent from the Roumbidón… A minister's life must be hellish, if someone like Roderin is not idling about."
"Ha! Wise words Mikael." Frederik patted his friends back, clearly humored.
"Hm… I think not."
"Huh? Why Anto—"
Frederik, pleased by his own voice, rarely silenced his words. His eyes went wide, and his two friends, confused by this sudden silence, followed the line his sight drew in the air.
Both were pleasantly surprised.
"Well well well…" The chatterbox resumed his words. "If it isn't His Eminence…" Frederik rose and gave a mock bow. "My, my… to visit this shoddy establishment… wouldn't His Highness enjoy the vistas of the Rue Blue far more?"
Other patrons turned, then succinctly returned to their conversations, knowing Frederik for the jester he was.
"Yes, yes… thank you for the honors, Frederik… although none of those addresses are proper for a minister." Roderin sat, his hand raising to indicate to a waiter his want for a cup.
"Who cares… you might as well be royalty now. When you marry some pretty aristocrat lady don't forget us, eh?"
The minister laughed, waving away his friend's words.
"Mikael, Anton, hello… How're your days? I see Frederik is great, as always."
"Rather surprised, to be honest, just today —moments ago in fact—, I got news that a close friend was appointed to Affairs."
Anton joined in chorus.
"Funny that, I got the exact same news… via paper no less."
Lamartine sighed.
"Okay, yes, sorry… I intended to tell you gentlemen before the papers got the chance, but, circumstances kept me… chained. I prayed the press would be busy with the recent commotion… alas…"
"Look, he's even talking like a politician now… I'm proud, Roderin."
Mikael's stare silenced Frederik.
"This was the opportunity you talked about, yes?"
"Yes, I ended accepting, as you already know."
"Ohhh… and who's the friend? The king? Haha!" The jester asked.
'Composure.'
"No, in a dream, perhaps…" He smirked "An acquaintance from the East-Mariannic… after a series of events we became… accomplices, let's say… then, one thing led to another and, well… I wish I could share more, but…" He raised his hands and shrugged.
"Understandable." Anton put down the paper. "And, how is it? being a minister?"
"Well, I thought I'd die an early death… however, it is not as excruciating as you imagine, and not as soul-crushing. It is a good challenge… although I do miss the east."
"You're not getting pulled apart in some sort of political struggle, are you?" Mikael asked, concerned.
"Ha! Well, not really… although the whole politics business is there, and bothersome… It's manageable." A waiter arrived with his coffee, exactly as he liked it; he was a regular, after all. "Thank you."
He sipped the brew.
"I missed this… I'm rather lousy at brewing a good cup… Expensive beans make up for it though."
Frederik snickered.
"So, how's the pay?"
Mikael rolled his eyes. Anton sighed.
"Really good. Although I didn't need more money…"
"The privileges of being born nobility…" The jester hung his head low, as if aggrieved. Perking up, he asked. "Hey, is it true you're the prince's custodian?"
Roderin was mid-sip… He didn't mind them knowing.
Eyes widened in jest, he put down the cup and raised both hands.
"You caught me."
Frederik's smile disappeared. The other two also looked shocked.
"Wait, really?" Frederik sounded genuinely at a loss.
"Yes."
He laughed thunderously, the other patrons turned again.
"Hahaha! Oh my… your peasant ancestors must be proud Roderin… Talk about leaping to heaven in a step. Oh, Hahaha!" The jester cried from laughter, holding himself.
Anton shone a small smile, then patted Lamartine on the shoulder.
"You've done quite well for yourself, haven't you, Roderin?"
"Really, congrats Roderin… you're quite the charmer, eh?" Mikael sounded quite proud of his friend.
"Gentlemen, thank you… although it wasn't, really, a result of ability… I more or less stumbled onto the post, and the custodianship…"
"Nevermind that… the prince's name is a tad pretentious, don't you think…? Well, it doesn't matter, he's royalty after all… they don't really feel superior without a good five names before a long-ass family name… titles on top." Frederik joked, having recovered from the episode of mad laughter.
"Eh, really?" Roderin scratched the back of his head, a little embarrassed.
"Yes…" His usually silent comrade answered.
"Anton…" He looked betrayed, at his friend.
The table went back into laughter.
"By the way… I expected you all, if the paper did print the news, to read of it earlier… did you really just find out."
Frederik interjected, to sate his friend's curiosity.
"Well, you see, Anton here was just…"
Their voices echoed until the sun set.
*
Arriving at his home, Roderin lamented the cold.
'God, I know it's autumn, but…'
He rushed in and piled a couple logs at the fireplace, lighting them… lighting the living room lamps as well.
Sitting in his chocolate-leather Bergère, he mused, thinking of the day.
'My throat feels rough from talking so much, from laughing…' Remembering his friends, he smiled.
'It was some necessary rest…'
He realized something strange.
'I haven't eaten all day… Just cups of coffee to keep me standing… Even while those three had lunch…'
The image of that old royal doctor flashed by in his mind.
Shuddering still, his hand searched for the patterned wool blanket he kept over a divan, put there for when he felt like sleeping in front of the fire.
Wrapping himself, he nestled into the warmth, closing his eyes and tilting his head back.
'Perhaps I should read some before bed.'
Thinking of the book he had picked up this morning, he lost interest… he wasn't really in a mood to read some Théologie Naturelle.
'I'll fall asleep if I stay like this…'
Watching the fire… smoldering like Bassáth's pipe…
He sighed.
'I was wholly unprepared for that meeting with the Viscount… he was right, I just felt somewhat guilty for his deposition… even if he did deserve it…' The fire danced before his eyes, like a living thing. 'Damn Alphonse, throwing me to the sharks…'
Some more logs into the fireplace…
'Now that I have time to think… where should I have gone on expedition? if not for this minister business…'
He almost felt the waves of the Mariannic under his feet… the salted air, the bearing sun… his hands cracked…
He stretched.
Raising his sight, he imagined his body leaping, from Hygeia to Qatrānu, from Qatrānu to Citrá, from Citrá no Ki-Uru.
'Perhaps back to Balbhāk…'
Roderin remembered.
'Oh, yes… I should watch the painting, yes, the painting, the thangka, yes, yes…'
The blanket slid off onto the ground.
Hidden, in an unused room, there it was, under white silk coverings, there, there…
He sat in front, casting off the white veils, admiring…
'A calyx of blue, cobalt tensed like muscled lit, as flames, a will-o'-wisp made for God to be lain… A thousand faces, obscured in the pale expression of the ogre, old-copper skinned ocean swallowed and crushed, crunched, bled dry into the empty sockets, to adorn the warring grin, a spirit in alabaster form clawing at time to be birth, again, again, again… held in his thousand hands thousand skulls of a thousand lives, jewels inlaid into their porous scalps as fire melted them into iridescence pure. The serpents parade on its skin coiling, uncoiling, bronzed, with insides of perfume, with eyes of red ruby coalesced from a sacrifice's flesh… falling… falling strings as stars hewn and spun, into platinum, silver and whitened gold so old, so old… mortuary masks, the mask, war made grimace, made skin, frozen, made death, it held its dead by the hairs, holding heads transformed by the divine shearing of its bite… It danced, sitting, half-danced to voiceless chants, to the sweetened crying of the gamelan, and bare-bodied worshipers into pulp, turned, pulp, turned… sap, red, sap… all one… gills like, water, like, melting argentum, the wheel of the lotus root in half, mercury and cinnabar to burn death, to blast apart…'
Eyes, eyes… why did his eyes burn? legs, sore… his neck, it cracked…
"Huh…"
Had it gotten warmer?
He stood, the veil once again covering… what?
'Oh, it's morning…'
Pacing around the house. His fingers riding against the wall.
Going into the living room…
A cozy autumn morning.
'What should I eat…?'
He thought for a moment…
'Coffee… I'll have some coffee.'
The day had just begun.
[End of Arc: Arrival/Birth.]