Disconnected Ramblings

Part 94: A Baron and a Taxman

The fortress of Heartsmouth is built tall and imposing out of black slate bricks, on top of a rise in the rock floor and cold soil of the caverns, dimly lit by sparse torchlight and patrolled by shadows atop the walls. The tax collector and his apprentice have been all over the underground, and seen many sights more frightful than this, but the apprentice has to ask.

"Do these people never realize that they're setting themselves up for evil?"

"Let's not hurry into judgments. Slate is plentiful here, and once in a while undergrounders aren't so bad."

"Whenever are they not?"

"Let's not slow to discuss when we're so close to the gate. We'll be out just as quickly as we come in."

Admissions are smooth. The gate guards part for the King's stamp like leaves in a breeze. Always a pleasure when it works.

"That'll be the keep, my girl. Pick up the pace, now, before something holds us up."

Heartsmouth keep is a fortress within the fortress, rising from the center of a muddy, dark shantytown of a domain. Houses and workplaces are mixed together and seldom distinguishable. No one is in the streets. Whatever the reason, it's best left alone.

And so, within a minute of passing the first guards, the collector comes to the entryway of the inner keep. He begins to address his apprentice, expecting a wait. The door opens instantly.

"Y- ah! My apologies, you've greeted us so swiftly. I'm-"

The servant at the door is a tall blonde woman, in a dress that, besides being evidently tailored for her, barely seems to qualify her to be around the upper-class. The material looks heavy and dark. Without expression or affect, she addresses the visitors with her eyes to the floor.

"You are expected."

"I- We're from the King, to be clear. I have the stamp."

"Yes."

"Ah, indeed. May we enter?"

"Yes."

Stepping in past her is only a little awkward for the collector, but the apprentice keeps her eyes on the servant, who holds the door until it's clear to close.

The keep is no darker with the outside shut out, but it can feel that way.

"Shall I show you to the Baron?"

Her voice is quiet and unique in that it fails to echo.

"Of course, miss. We expect our business will be swift."

Without response, she passes them and begins to lead. The collector looks down at his apprentice, and catches her expression. He whispers.

"Something troubles you, girl?"

"Does... does she... feel normal to you?"

"The servant? Rather dull, perhaps."

"Something about her eyes. No, nothing. There's nothing in her eyes, did you see?"

"I expect you saw them better than I did from down there. Well, the beck and call of an undergrounder Baron can be mind-numbing, you know."

He pats his apprentice on the head. She tries to think of a better way to explain what she saw. The words don't come in time, as they arrive in a dining room furnished in genuine tree wood and set for guests. A large caped man that can only be the Baron sits alone in waiting.

"You are the taxman! Welcome, sit. Girl – ah, my girl, that is, to the corner. Wait on us. Sit now, my guests!"

The apprentice watches the servant mutely walk to the corner, turn, and fall still, hands folded, eyes still downcast.