Serving Lant Agriche

Chapter 4 - How Tea Ended

Dion stepped out of the carriage in full livery: a soft black tunic with gold embroidery over his chest, a purple sash around his waist, calf-leather dress shoes, and a ceremonial sword chained to his belt. The Agriche family crest was imprinted on his back.

He stood to the side and bowed his head slightly as his father exited the carriage after him.

Lant Agriche stepped out with a polished-oak cane. With his other hand, he drew a black fedora hat over his eyes, which matched the black coat jacket hanging across his shoulders. His polished leather shoes and pinstripe business suit almost completed his look as a criminal kingpin.

The finishing touch was the steel handgun strapped to his belt.

When the footman closed the door to the empty carriage, Dion turned and gave a curt nod to Baron Ashby.

Ashby was a short man with a black, curly moustache that the Italians are famous for. He too was dressed in his finest, although the bulge over his trousers gave his appearance a slightly comic effect. He rubbed his hands together as his entire staff bustled to help the Agriche footmen unsaddle the horses or finish setting up for tea in the garden.

"Baron, thank you for the warm welcome!" Lant Agriche held out a gloved hand.

With two hands, Ashby took hold of Lant Agriche and kissed the ring on the man's finger. His ears reddened when he noticed Lant Agriche looking down on him with his red shiny eyes. Instead of shaking Lant Agriche's hand, the Baron had been too formal. Like a well-trained b#$ch, he had naturally bowed his head to his friend, as if they were in reality servant and master.

"Ahem, yes. Your request to meet was a nice surprise. If this is about hiring the right traders to transport our goods through the Northern Border, you needn't come in person. Surely, a letter correspondence would suffice."

Lant Agriche strolled to the garden where the tea was being served with Ashby following, as if the roles were reversed and the former was hosting.

"Come, Dion," Lant Agriche said. "My son, by the way," he added to Ashby. "I admit meeting you was an excuse for the two of us to get some fresh air."

Ashby allowed Lant Agriche to be seated first before planting his ample bum in his chair. Over the rows of savoury finger sandwiches and crumpets, Ashby looked suspiciously at Dion who stood by his father's shoulder.

"Eh, would you care for some tea, boy?" Ashby said.

A servant was poised with a teapot in his hands, ready to pour into a third teacup should Dion wish to also partake.

Dion shook his head. He generally preferred standing in the open. It was easier to respond to a threat when he had his guard up.

"Sit down, Dion," Lant Agriche ordered.

Dion sat down.

Lant Agriche's voice became soothing as he turned the conversation to work.

Ashby had been in business with Lant Agriche for years and had a very good idea of how dangerous his colleague was.

Nevertheless, Dion began to see the crease on Ashby's forehead unfurl. The Baron's portly body began to draw closer to Lant Agriche as the conversation flowed.

Dion was not envious of Lant Agriche's charisma but thought that the trait was useful.

When the Baron had consumed the whole platter of sandwiches—Lant Agriche had only wanted plain tea—the Baron patted his bulging stomach in content.

"Chester, what are you doing hiding over there?" the Baron called out to his dog.

A beautiful Doberman laid low in the shade of the bushes, away from its master. It was a fairly large black-haired dog with hair so short and fine, you could see the curve of its ribs cage before its body tapered at the waist.

The dog lowered its head to the ground and raised a paw over its nose, its eyes never leaving Lant Agriche.

"Funny, the dog is usually a bother to guests," Ashby frowned. "I've never seen him so docile before."

"A hunting breed?" Lant Agriche sipped his tea. "Perhaps he ate something disagreeable."

"Yes, maybe," Ashby said, unconvinced. "Michael would love to see you though. You must tell me your secret to bond with my two-year-old. He's out shopping with his mother now, but I remembered the last time you came. That child kept running towards you to sit on your lap."

Lant Agriche had never shown affection to his own children. The first time he had ever touched Dion was the other day, when he had been stabbing his son repeatedly in the chest.

Dion stared blankly at his untouched tea. He was not jealous of this mysterious Michael. He was actually interested in meeting the little boy. He had never seen anyone brave or stupid enough to want affection from Lant Agriche.

The dog suddenly rose and wagged its tail.

Dion's eyes snapped to someone moving behind his father. His hand wrapped around the spade-shaped cake knife near his seat.

"Uncle Lant!" the young man said.

Dion quickly noted that the young man was too old to be the Baron's son. Dion moved seamlessly toward the intruder and grabbed the man's hair to bare the intruder's neck. Although the blade was dull, with Dion's strength, the cake knife carved through the man's neck bone in one stroke. The head swung back and swayed from a thin piece of tendon that still connected the head to its shoulders.

Dion twisted his body to ensure that no blood fell on Lant Agriche. His eyes closed for a brief second as blood splattered over his hair and face.

He laid the dead body carefully on the ground and began searching it for explosives and other weapons.

"Oh My God," Ashby said in horror.

The dog growled before charging at Dion. He gave one loud bark before exploding into a cacophony that echoed through the garden.

Dion crouched and grabbed the dog's neck right before the canine's teeth could grab hold of him. He rolled his body over the dog until they were tumbling on the ground together, the dog snarling, yanking its head left and right, trying to seize his enemy.

With a grappling move that would make a judo master proud, Dion ended up straddling the dog's back from behind. His hands wrapped around the dog's snout, muzzling the animal. Drool dribbled out of the dog's partially closed mouth even as Dion snapped its neck.

The dog's tail slumped before its entire body collapsed.

Dion rose and pulled his ceremonial sword from his waist. The blade was dull, but its weight and durability was still equal to a wooden sword. His eyes darted around, preparing to defend against another attack.

Tears were flowing from the Baron's flabby cheeks. Under the table, a wet stain appeared in-between his pants.

Lant Agriche looked at the face of the young man on the ground before finishing the last of his tea.

"Dion, you were wrong," he said approvingly. "That was Master Wallace. Didn't I tell you to respect your senior?"