To Kill a Nightingale

Miserable Bastards

Cold and miserable. That was the most apt description to spring to Bashnag's mind, depicting with minute accuracy both Jarl Black-Briar and this dark stone horror in which she kept her court. It wasn't that the place itself much differed from other keeps, but somehow the joint effect of the place and its mistress had a most poignant effect on his already chafed soul.

To be sure, he would have gladly strangled the bitch where she stood.

Or, to be more exact, sat. The old woman had the most curious way of slouching on her throne, lackadaisical beyond even the usual lazy arrogance of the ruling class, conveying the impression that it was only through her limitless sense of mercy that she deigned to see you. Not that Maven Black-Briar was known for her mercy. In fact, the mere notion was laughable.

The lady was by no means the lone representation of utter dourness in the room. She'd surrounded herself with an impressive gallery of other most wretched looking bastards. A collection of guards and courtly lackeys, closer examination of which Bashnag deliberately neglected. His mood was already dark enough as it was, and he was too busy pretending he was anywhere but here. And yet he had to continue looking sufficiently menacing and attentive next to his master.

Luckily he'd had more than enough practice.

The Nightingale remained, of course, utterly untouched by any of this. He stood in front of the Jarl's throne in precisely the same way he conducted himself in all situations: with utter lack of concern or perturbation. And, of course, he wasn't the one here with any reason for such feelings. No, it was that row of carefully constructed stone-faces staring down at him from the shallow wooden platform that hid all the unease in the room—barring Bashnag's of course, but his was of a different breed.

There were perhaps only two people whose unconcern did not seem wholly studied. There was Maven herself—jaded and callous, no doubt, already when the Nightingale had been born—and the small woman with the heart-shaped face standing off to the side whose expression seemed fixed in a permanent state of bemusement. There was something to that one in particular which made him not want to let his eyes linger overlong.

Yet he found that his eyes seemed to keep wanting to return to the Jarl herself.

Her appearance was certainly a thing of utmost curiosity. It was almost as if her body had reached a limit some decade or two ago after which it had simply refused to age any further. For a wonder, her hair still retained most of its natural dark; and although her face was riddled with deep furrows, she still somehow rather came across as a particularly worn-out woman in her middle years than the twenty or thirty years older grandmother that she was. Perhaps the hag has found the fountain of youth.

That fountain, quite possibly, stood a couple paces behind the throne, with his arms bunched in front of him like a sulking child. Not that the blond man in particular likely possessed any special qualities—in fact, he sort of had the look of a simpleton—but rather his representative species, which Maven was known to bed with staggering frequency. In fact, that this one had been around for several years already was a small miracle. Perhaps there is more to him than meets the eye.

It did not seem likely.

"So kind you could be with us with such a short notice," the Jarl said, brandishing a skeletal hand with obvious irony. Her voice was as resonant and her infliction as polished as ever, her delivery that of a lurking snake.

"When I receive a word you request my attendance, Maven," the Nightingale said, "I fly."

The Jarl snorted, smiling without humor.