The Age of Undeath

2. Lutes are for hacks - Jimothy

I am the world famous Demon Jim. He plucked at the strings of his borrowed lute, refusing to let himself blush with indignation. And she wants a lute? In his long journey from the Empire's crowning city in the south, all the way here to its northern border, not once had he met another person who could play the bagpipes. Besides his father, of course, who had taught him.

Any amateur could study the lute, any sop could fade into the background or draw tears to the eye with two basic chords. But ah, by the Ten, a bagpipe commanded attention, shattered the realms of sorrow and delight with its thunderous notes. Even in a manor this size it would blast the dust from the farthest corners.

"Where is that bard?" Clémence Duval's voice spilled from the balcony above, echoing into the entrance hall. The few guests nearby did not acknowledge her, sticking to the edges of the room as if the Duval family crest in the centre was sacred space. Jim stopped slouching and mindlessly plucking. A melody to please the Mysts danced across the blue and white Duval tiles, perhaps a little out of tune, but no one noticed, especially not beneath the distant hum of the orchestra in the ballroom.

"Perhaps he needed a momentary rest, m'lady," said the butler.

"Have all the guests arrived?"

"Not yet, m'lady. We are still waiting on Monsieur Trill, and Captain Vallen and her party."

"I don't know who told that stupid bird that being 'fashionably late' was a real thing... If the Captain arrives before him, you may leave your door duties to oversee dinner. That nitwit can peck the door open for himself."

"Yes, m'lady."

Jim's brows shot up at the insults, but otherwise kept his expression neutral, conscious of the butler now marching down the steps, the elf's back ramrod straight and handsome chin raised high. The elf paced with hands behind his back, crisp navy tunic hemmed in black and white fish, the symbol of Duval stamped upon him. Refusing to watch his posturing, Jim studied every cut and sparkle of the hall's chandelier.

A knock sounded and the butler marched across the tiles, flung open the front door. "Ah, welcome, Monsieur Trill of the Last Arrie, and Tucapon Council Advisor."

Accustomed to his life here, Monsieur Trill swept into the light without a word and the butler shut the door behind him. Jim tucked himself deeper into the corner, fingering the blandest of chords, better to ogle at the avishkar. Glossy red feathers covered his short stature from head to knee, his scaled knees bent backwards and supported by taloned feet that clacked with every step. His enormous wings were folded neatly against his back, and Jim was dying to ask how he got dressed into his silk, cobalt tunic.

"Trill, I'm so glad you could make it!" Clémence descended the staircase in slow, graceful steps. No one could deny she was charming to behold and Jim allowed himself the pleasure of staring at her well-fitted silver bodice, bejewelled with pink and tangerine stones that shimmered in the candlelight. Her skirt fanned around her, the embroidery exquisite, and gave her the illusion of gliding on air as she finally left the steps. A large amber stone dangled from her neck, drawing the eye to her décolletage, and her brown hair had been twisted into a half-and-half updo.

She paused to acknowledge the few groups of guests, making Trill wait for a personal greeting with every breath. Eventually towering over him, she said, "Eresin sends his apologises but he's too unwell to attend."

"That is too bad, but I shall not lack for pleasant company." Trill's cheeks stretched, his golden eyes narrowing. Did the avishkar know that Clémence distained him? His melodic accent suggested genuine warmth, but it was hard to tell what the expression meant when half of Trill's face was a beak.

"You know what he's like." Clémence toyed with the gem resting on her bosom. "If he's not pouring over maps of the mountains or seeing demons in the dark, well, he's having a bad day."

Trill cooed – literally cooed. "Your brother is dedicated."

"Some would say so." Clémence beckoned to the servant waiting dutifully by the kitchen corridor, guarding five empty bottles of champagne and a smattering of flutes. At her mistress' summons, the maid reached into the bottle collection and pulled out one that wasn't quite empty, poured it into a flute unmarked by lipstick and handed it to Trill on a silver platter.

"Thank you, you are devine." The maid blushed and hurried back to her post without a word. Another elf. Even across the hall, Jim could see her eyes were luminous green, set into a face as sweet as melted sugar. Maybe she'd appreciate meeting the world famous Demon Jim.

"Please make yourself comfortable," Clémence was saying. Jim willed the elf girl to look at him, sauntering closer, plucking the strings with actual concentration now – beckoning her with a tune to quicken anyone's pulse. "There's livelier music in the ballroom. Jim, my dear..."

He let himself dance a little, the notes still perfect, and finally caught her watching. Jim winked, thrilled to see her lashes flutter and plump pink lips quirk in a smile.

"Bard. I am talking to you."

He slapped his hand on the strings, cutting off the complicated riff with a twang. Trill coughed into the sudden silence, the guests in the hall staring like they were seeing Jim for the first time. I am a friend among Princes, not a nobody. Grinning, Jim swung the lute onto his back and bowed, low enough to be respectful, flamboyant enough to let her know he wouldn't fawn at her feet.

"Lady Duval, what is it?"

Her belladonna smile probably made lesser mortals shiver. "The veranda is a little quiet. Will you go and play something romantic out there, pretty please?"

"But the orchestra is right next to the veranda."

"We had an agreement, Demon Jim. Are you going back on your word?"

"Right." His smile didn't slip, even as he envisioned removing the lute and smashing it to pieces against the sweeping stair's marble bannister. "I wouldn't dream of it. Veranda was it? There once was a maiden who's lifeblood ran gold..."

Jim swaggered to the ballroom doors, humming the tune to the love song and imagining very different lyrics:

Despite its fine luster her heart was stone cold.