"Your existence hurts people," the words from that nameless serving girl stuck with him. His escorts pushed open two enameled bronze doors, each groaning as they yawned apart to let in the symphony of flutes, lyres, and pianos. "You cannot live as you do without taking from someone else."
High ladies, in long dresses fringed with gold and silver, smiled suggestively, bowing their heads as they held their masks to their faces and lowered their gazes. Merchant princes followed the example of the women, their intricate dress suits glimmering under the chandeliers as they muttered a courteous 'My Lord' under their breaths. Various noblemen from different families were present too, all eyes turning to him as he entered the ballroom flanked by two palace guardsmen. Though the noblemen were less obsequious, a right granted to them by their rank in relation to Lewis's own.
Some men nodded, lords from the great families across the northern hemisphere. Houses powerful and mighty, and others who still bore a prestigious name but had little influence beyond that prestige. Young princes and princesses in elaborate dresses stood with their elders, smiling at Lewis Styne as he tried to make his silence as he crossed the floor feel less awkward than it was.
"Young master," greeted a masked lordling who emerged out between the lanes of guests. Lewis inched closer and noted the military decorations and aiguillettes.
General or admiral, don't confuse the names. Lewis knew his father would kill him if he got someone's name wrong.
"If you don't care to remember a man's name, why should they care to remember yours?" Father had drilled into him a hundred times.
Instead, Lewis bowed his head and smiled respectfully. "Welcome," he said. "I hope you're enjoying yourself, sir."
"Pavlovs know well how to enjoy themselves," the man said, taking a pair of shot glasses from a platter carried by a servant in grey. He downed one, then the other, smiling as he added, "It's you Stynes who are stiff and soldierly."
Pavlov. A house which owed its glory to its feats in the admiralty. There was only one such Pavlov who could wear five gilded stars above the rest of his honors pinned on his left breast. Mikhail Pavlov, Rear Admiral of the Third Arcadian Fleet. "Well, unfortunately we Stynes are not as flexible as the Third Arcadian Fleet," Lewis said. "Or at least from what I've heard of their exploits in the outer orbits."
The rear admiral furrowed his brows, smiling and gesturing to Lewis whilst he nodded to a few other decorated men. "Informed he is! Remembers the commanders better than some of my cadets, hell I doubt even His Excellency the Consul would be so well versed."
Lewis smiled awkwardly as laughter and giggles filled the air, accompanied by the clinking of chalices and cups. "I try my best," he said stiffly.
"I was wondering when the furtive young heir of House Styne would emerge." The rear admiral lowered his lion face mask and smiled broadly. He was a tall, blue eyed, slender man in his middle thirties, well built and healthy. He bore a dirty-blonde bowl cut, his face mustached with features strong and hawkish. "I've heard stories of the reclusive Arcadian prince, I wondered if there was merit to the tales."
"Well, I'm not a hermit," Lewis shot back. "I prefer moderation. A rarity in these halls, I'm sure you'll agree."
"Yet excess is the currency of the great houses," said another masked nobleman. "We feast so that the plebs may dream and aspire to the same feast. The Arcadian dream, my boy."
Lewis almost scoffed. Yeah, that's why half the planet hates us.
"Just so," Pavlov said. "Regardless of Arcadian dreams and avoiding excess, it is good to make your acquaintance, my lord." The rear admiral extended out his hand.
Lewis smiled again, taking Pavlov's hand in his. "It is an honor," he said.
"The honor is all mine, please, if I could speak with you?" The rear admiral wrapped an arm around Lewis's shoulder and drew him nearer to the center of the ballroom where hundreds of lords and ladies waltzed into a blur of luxury and colored velvet and silks.
"How may I assist you, my lord?" Lewis asked. He didn't like where this was going.
Mikhail chuckled, grabbing another shot glass from a servant passing by. "Your father." He downed the glass and set back on the servant's platter. "He's been avoiding me all night."
I can surmise why.
"Treating me like the ugly cousin at the dance," Pavlov said. "Could make a girl wonder if his actions are intentional."
"I can't tell you why my father would do that," Lewis replied. "His mind is as much a mystery to me as it likely is to you."
Pavlov laughed. "Well, someone or other will need to solve this mystery, because as of right now, he's given the honor of garrisoning Starfall for this ball with eighth fleet marines when he promised the honor would be given to third fleet marines. I mean, I'm smiling." Pavlov's grin widened, teeth bared in a predatory smile. "But I'm fucking angry, Lord Styne. Very fucking angry."
Oh God, why does the old man have to dump his drama on my lap? "Uh, I well… I may be the heir of House Styne, but I'm certainly not in control of House Styne, my lord."
"Just so, and I should say I am not placing the blame in your soft hands. However, if your father is responsible for this farrago of shit, I would certainly like an audience so that he might explain to me why he has given over command of Starfall to the vaunted pillow-biting brigade instead of me? Eh?"
Lewis looked back up to Pavlov awkwardly. "I will fetch my father," he said.
Pavlov grinned broadly and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's all I ask. House Pavlov has been a consistent supporter of House Styne for a generation. Wouldn't want that all to come crashing down over a misunderstanding." He tightened his belts and nodded. "Now, if you excuse me, my lord, I'm gonna go see if those young fillies across the way have been smiling at me or at you, wish me luck?"
Lewis saw the girls on the other side of the ball room, all hiding behind their folding fans and masks, giggling and gossiping as they stared his and Pavlov's way. "Good luck," he said to the rear admiral.
"I see you've met our less than amiable friend?" Lewis was taken unawares when he saw Sir Henry standing behind him. He was well dressed for the ball, a long black dress coat fringed in silver. "I was going to try and rescue you, but it seems the old dog has dismissed himself."
Lewis sighed as the guests waltzed around them, a hundred unfamiliar faces amongst hundreds more he wished he didn't know. "Is there a reason why the rear admiral is not in my father's favor?" he asked.
"It's not so much something that Lord Pavlov is responsible for," said Sir Henry. "But moreso, your father attempting to curry favor with the officers in the eighth fleet. Many of them lean towards the Neo-Falangists, I surmise he wants to keep them on side."
"Well, if he keeps on doing things like this with long-time allies, he will have nothing but an army of reluctant acquaintances supporting him."
"My my," said Sir Henry. "Weren't you saying at your lessons you couldn't care less about the politics and intrigue?"
Lewis sighed. "Oh, fuck off."
"Ha, sorry, sorry. You're not wrong I'll admit, but your father will do as your father does. All we can do is follow."
"Yeah…" Lewis said solemnly. He remembered that servant girl, her green eyes, her cold gaze, her harsh words. After that short conversation, everything around him, the sights of gold, of silver, of marble and jade. It was wrong, or partly at least. There was a part who could not deny there was a pleasure in the enjoyment of luxury too. It was unjust, but it did not make the cakes sour, or the skinglider steaks less succulent than they were.
"There was a girl I spoke to," he told Sir Henry. "I would like to speak with her again."
"Oh, romantic interest?" Sir Henry teased coyly. "I didn't think you were the sort. Who's noble daughter are you eyeing?"
"Not a noble," he said, and then more sharply he added, "Not a romantic interest either."
"Oh?"
"A servant girl," said Lewis. "I saw her in the corridor leading to the apartments. I want to see her, I know you're just my tutor but seeing as I can't just waltz out of here without causing gossip, I hope I can trust you to organize a meeting with the serving staff later?"
Sir Henry nodded, bowing his head in sarcastic obsequiousness. "Your wish is my command."
Lewis scoffed and lightly punched his grey haired tutor in the shoulder, prompting them both to laugh. Though, their heartfelt exchange was cut short when a palace guardsman came up behind Lewis and whispered in his ear. "My lord, there was an intruder, your father was mortally wounded. Please come with us."
Lewis felt as though the waltz had frozen in time, and everything came crashing down in his mind all at once. He looked back to the guardsmen, his expression grim. His heart pounded as he followed after him and the few other guardsmen by the entry where he'd emerged. He left the ballroom, whispers of scandal and speculation following in his wake.
His father lay in a graceless position, his neck was slashed wide, exposing tendons and veins, with a pool of blood darkening around him. There were two others, guardsmen, both of them corpses.
"A servant killed them." Lewis turned to face the girl who'd survived the encounter, a serving girl herself. She was puffy, recovering still from crying herself. Her lips trembled under the harsh scrutiny of the guardsmen at the consul's apartment door. "She was, like a ghost, my lord."
Tears welled in his eyes as he stared at his father's lifeless body, sprawled gracelessly in a growing pool of blood. The man who had loomed so large, who had seemed invincible even in his cruelty, now looked small. Vulnerable. Human.
He killed my mother. He let the south starve. He built this world of gold and filth. And yet, Lewis's chest tightened, his throat closing as a sob broke free. "Fuck," he whispered, the word heavy with grief and fury.
That was when one of the guardsmen fell to a knee, unsheathing his sword and laying it at Lewis's feet. "My Lord," he said. Another did likewise and likewise bowed his head. Lewis turned to the score of palace guards, all on their knees now. All of them hailing him.
"Long live Lord Styne."
The words were a gut punch. Lewis wanted to hurl. He glanced back down at his father, then to the crying servant girl. Swallowing hard, he forced the words out. He wiped his eyes, trembling as he turned to the guards. "Hold this servant in her chambers," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Until we know what happened."
"Yes, my lord," answered one.
"And the ball?" asked another.
Lewis sat down on a chair beside the door to his father's chambers. "We'll let it go on," he said. "An abrupt shutdown will invite gossip and speculation. Gossip spreads, the enemies of the state will grow emboldened… I did not agree with everything my father did." Tears flowed down his cheeks. "But I do not want violence to break out in this power vacuum. Get me someone who can send a telegram to the senate."
"Immediately, my Lord Styne."