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Description
--29--

Peering through the fire smoke caught in the windowless room, Thomas surveyed the young man standing before his desk and, forgetting the effects of his fifth cup of mead that morning, was able to absorb all he needed to know. Despite his obvious poverty, the man still lent a thought to his appearance: his clothes were worn with the use of an only outfit, but neatly patched with sturdy thread and fabric. He stood neither taller nor lower than most men, and though his skin was tanned from time spent outside, it was not quite as dark as that of the perpetually browned field hands. His hair was somewhere between coppery brown and chestnut, raggedly cut, but at least trimmed. Thomas noted with some annoyance--jealousy, really, but he refused to give the feeling its proper name--that the man's frame carried no extra weight, unlike his own, but still looked as sturdy as the foundation of the manor.

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Thomas's eyes as something about the man stirred the dregs of his memory. However, years of fine, fatty food and far too frequent drink had taken their toll. Thomas completely failed to recognize his own brother.

He narrowed his eyes, rubbing the velvet collar of his house jacket to remind the poorer man of his inferiority, and grudgingly nodded his approval.

"What's your name, man?"

"Nilas, your mastership."

"Nilas?" Thomas leaned forward and attempted to meet the young man's eyes. They were narrow with contempt, but Nicholas made sure to train them on the desk, guessing correctly that his brother would mistake this as a stubborn mask for his fear.

"No job title, then?"

Nicholas huffed a small laugh. "Begging your pardon, master, but if I were fine enough to have a proper name then I'd've had proper prenticing and no need for a job."

Thomas grunted his disproval of Nicholas's retort. "And where shall I employ you, Nilas?"

"Wherever your mastership should please to put me that pays a copper or two, I'll work there."

A light cough shot from the shadowy edge of the room and Aimeric stepped forward.

"If I may say so, master, Nilas has done some work down at the old Lady widow's manor, and he has a hand for growing things. Kept his job and the widow's favor longer than the rest of the yard workers, but now that she's gone blind, well, she's got no use for him anymore."

"Hmm…the Lady widow, you say? The next door down?"

"One door and near five thousand trees, your mastership," Nicholas replied.

Thomas frowned at Nicholas's second bold comment. "You'd best watch that sharp tongue, man. That is, unless it helps you tame my roses."

"Roses?"

Thomas nodded. "There's one bush out back that my house servants have been unable to control. Arrange it and I'll give you twice what those blasted flowers are worth, and not only that, I'll keep you employed until you've worn out your use."

Nicholas swallowed. It was one thing to pose as a gardener, quite another to tackle a plant that was both vicious and delicate. He took care to keep any nervousness from his voice as he finished his lines.

"Master, these things take time."

"So?"

"How am I to feed my mother in the mean time?" The statement would help calm any suspicions his brother might have.

Back in his element, Thomas chuckled. "That's not my concern, is it?"

Nicholas gritted his teeth in honest anger. He jerked his head to the side and muttered, "No, master," which only made Thomas chuckle again. Each breath of air sent the layers of fat around his neck aquiver until the laugh morphed into a hacking cough that shook the whole body as well. Nicholas felt not a drop of pity for him.

Thomas set down his pen and reached across his desk for his mug of mead, waving Nicholas and Aimeric from the room with his other hand. Both bowed and quickly slipped through the door so that the light of the hall beyond would not disturb their master.

Nicholas breathed deep, filling his lungs with clean air. He stepped toward the banister to rest his knuckles on the railing and, remembering the day his brother had slammed him around the house before throwing him out, was grateful that the old manor had been worn smooth with age instead of polished hard as stone.

"Well Nick, you made it," Aimeric whispered. Nicholas allowed a smile to creep onto his face and nodded as he examined the entrance hall below.

Thomas had only added to and enlarged its splendor, though no guests had ever appreciated the work. Diamonds of fresh white marble shone against the slate floor, while a dozen freshly painted wooden pillars stretched seamlessly toward the high ceiling. A large marble-topped table with gold-gilded legs--a prize piece Bertram had brought from his first and only voyage to Afrika--stood in the center of the hall, just inside the scoop of the stairway's new curve. Above their heads hung an enormous pewter chandelier that matched sconces on the old wood-paneled walls. There were more windows than when Nicholas had been there last: two on either side of the door and a string of ovals of decreasing size on either side of the stained glass window, all reinforced with a pattern of lead, as was the fashion. The unchanged glass ship from Nicholas's childhood remained as a sign of good fortune for the merchant-master who owned a dozen like it, although the motto's message was lost on its current owner. Nicholas had a strange, sad feeling looking at it, a mixture of relief that this, at least, was still present, and regret that more memorable items from his childhood were not.

Aimeric watched Nicholas's face to gauge his reaction. Sensing this, Nicholas remarked, "It's a far cry from the old manor, but I suppose it will do."

Aimeric snorted. "Far cry indeed! That chandelier on its own could feed most of Tollan, never mind the money Thomas sank into the rest of this house. He must have turned quite a profit selling the old furnishings to supplement your father's savings."

"Too bad it will all be mine soon," Nicholas muttered.

Amused, Aimeric shook his head. "All the years you've said that I never thought you'd actually do something about it. Any other tossed heir would have waited for his time to come."

"By then Thomas might have left specific instructions for after his death. I have to catch him off guard. Besides, I prefer it this way. I want him to beg me for the one thing he can't buy before I claim my inheritance."

Aimeric's dark eyes darted back to the door of Thomas's study.

"So you're really going to do it then?"

"Of course," Nicholas replied at once.

"As you planned?"

"Unless you can think of a better way."

"Are you...sure?" Nicholas's sigh of annoyance piqued his anger. "Oh, I know, the whole plan again, and I'm still too simple a stable boy to understand, right?" Anger leaked into Aimeric's voice, but he pressed on. "But I still think poison would be so much easier and far less risky-"

"I have been planning this for six years Aimeric."

"Yes I know, but-"

"And I've been waiting every day since I had to watch that merchant auction off all of my possessions."

"I should have dragged you off sooner," Aimeric grumbled.

"I'm not about to back away now."

"Look, I won't be sorry to see him go either, but–"

"Oh yes, your grudge." Nicholas could feel the heat rising up his neck. "I only lost my friends, my home, and my inheritance, but you, you lost your precious job with the horses."

"For you," Aimeric shot back. "In case you've forgotten."

"It didn't stop you from getting the job here, though, did it?"

Aimeric snorted. "Not my fault your brother has the worst memory in Tollan."

Nicholas gritted his teeth. "He's not my brother."

"Sure, I am, right?"

The sarcasm stung enough to bring Nicholas back to his senses. What was he doing, arguing with his only ally? He shook his head to chase away the remains of his anger. "Good as," he muttered, but Aimeric had turned toward the staircase and did not hear him.

"I'll show you to the servant's quarters," he said.

Nicholas opened his mouth to apologize, but just then one of the other servants slipped in through the back door. No matter how much he wanted to make amends with Aimeric, Nicholas knew better than to talk in another servant's presence. He could remember hearing the gossip as a child, when Bertram's servants thought him too young to pay attention, and he knew that they would find it suspicious if the relatively new steward was too friendly with the very new gardener.

--30--

Taming the rose bush was no easy task, but no gardener worth the name should have needed more than a day to complete it. Nicholas strew thorny branches across the yard, knowing that the mess gave the appearance of progress and prevented closer inspection during his absences. He had planned from the beginning to take breaks, to use the time winning the other servants' favor. However, in all his calculations, the servants had no faces and they came easily to his side. Now that he had secured a position in the manor, he found that the servants were, in fact, quite real. Most had served Thomas for all six years of Nicholas's absence, and most were at least twice his age. What right did he, an eighteen-year-old pseudo-gardener with only a few hours' experience, have to take away the man, however terrible, who provided them security?

By midday, Nicholas had not spoken to anyone, and the longer he fiddled pointlessly with the rose bushes, the more he worried that he might have lost his ability to make friends on the long road from the round to the manor.

Description
--29--

Peering through the fire smoke caught in the windowless room, Thomas surveyed the young man standing before his desk and, forgetting the effects of his fifth cup of mead that morning, was able to absorb all he needed to know. Despite his obvious poverty, the man still lent a thought to his appearance: his clothes were worn with the use of an only outfit, but neatly patched with sturdy thread and fabric. He stood neither taller nor lower than most men, and though his skin was tanned from time spent outside, it was not quite as dark as that of the perpetually browned field hands. His hair was somewhere between coppery brown and chestnut, raggedly cut, but at least trimmed. Thomas noted with some annoyance--jealousy, really, but he refused to give the feeling its proper name--that the man's frame carried no extra weight, unlike his own, but still looked as sturdy as the foundation of the manor.

There was a flicker of uncertainty in Thomas's eyes as something about the man stirred the dregs of his memory. However, years of fine, fatty food and far too frequent drink had taken their toll. Thomas completely failed to recognize his own brother.

He narrowed his eyes, rubbing the velvet collar of his house jacket to remind the poorer man of his inferiority, and grudgingly nodded his approval.

"What's your name, man?"

"Nilas, your mastership."

"Nilas?" Thomas leaned forward and attempted to meet the young man's eyes. They were narrow with contempt, but Nicholas made sure to train them on the desk, guessing correctly that his brother would mistake this as a stubborn mask for his fear.

"No job title, then?"

Nicholas huffed a small laugh. "Begging your pardon, master, but if I were fine enough to have a proper name then I'd've had proper prenticing and no need for a job."

Thomas grunted his disproval of Nicholas's retort. "And where shall I employ you, Nilas?"

"Wherever your mastership should please to put me that pays a copper or two, I'll work there."

A light cough shot from the shadowy edge of the room and Aimeric stepped forward.

"If I may say so, master, Nilas has done some work down at the old Lady widow's manor, and he has a hand for growing things. Kept his job and the widow's favor longer than the rest of the yard workers, but now that she's gone blind, well, she's got no use for him anymore."

"Hmm…the Lady widow, you say? The next door down?"

"One door and near five thousand trees, your mastership," Nicholas replied.

Thomas frowned at Nicholas's second bold comment. "You'd best watch that sharp tongue, man. That is, unless it helps you tame my roses."

"Roses?"

Thomas nodded. "There's one bush out back that my house servants have been unable to control. Arrange it and I'll give you twice what those blasted flowers are worth, and not only that, I'll keep you employed until you've worn out your use."

Nicholas swallowed. It was one thing to pose as a gardener, quite another to tackle a plant that was both vicious and delicate. He took care to keep any nervousness from his voice as he finished his lines.

"Master, these things take time."

"So?"

"How am I to feed my mother in the mean time?" The statement would help calm any suspicions his brother might have.

Back in his element, Thomas chuckled. "That's not my concern, is it?"

Nicholas gritted his teeth in honest anger. He jerked his head to the side and muttered, "No, master," which only made Thomas chuckle again. Each breath of air sent the layers of fat around his neck aquiver until the laugh morphed into a hacking cough that shook the whole body as well. Nicholas felt not a drop of pity for him.

Thomas set down his pen and reached across his desk for his mug of mead, waving Nicholas and Aimeric from the room with his other hand. Both bowed and quickly slipped through the door so that the light of the hall beyond would not disturb their master.

Nicholas breathed deep, filling his lungs with clean air. He stepped toward the banister to rest his knuckles on the railing and, remembering the day his brother had slammed him around the house before throwing him out, was grateful that the old manor had been worn smooth with age instead of polished hard as stone.

"Well Nick, you made it," Aimeric whispered. Nicholas allowed a smile to creep onto his face and nodded as he examined the entrance hall below.

Thomas had only added to and enlarged its splendor, though no guests had ever appreciated the work. Diamonds of fresh white marble shone against the slate floor, while a dozen freshly painted wooden pillars stretched seamlessly toward the high ceiling. A large marble-topped table with gold-gilded legs--a prize piece Bertram had brought from his first and only voyage to Afrika--stood in the center of the hall, just inside the scoop of the stairway's new curve. Above their heads hung an enormous pewter chandelier that matched sconces on the old wood-paneled walls. There were more windows than when Nicholas had been there last: two on either side of the door and a string of ovals of decreasing size on either side of the stained glass window, all reinforced with a pattern of lead, as was the fashion. The unchanged glass ship from Nicholas's childhood remained as a sign of good fortune for the merchant-master who owned a dozen like it, although the motto's message was lost on its current owner. Nicholas had a strange, sad feeling looking at it, a mixture of relief that this, at least, was still present, and regret that more memorable items from his childhood were not.

Aimeric watched Nicholas's face to gauge his reaction. Sensing this, Nicholas remarked, "It's a far cry from the old manor, but I suppose it will do."

Aimeric snorted. "Far cry indeed! That chandelier on its own could feed most of Tollan, never mind the money Thomas sank into the rest of this house. He must have turned quite a profit selling the old furnishings to supplement your father's savings."

"Too bad it will all be mine soon," Nicholas muttered.

Amused, Aimeric shook his head. "All the years you've said that I never thought you'd actually do something about it. Any other tossed heir would have waited for his time to come."

"By then Thomas might have left specific instructions for after his death. I have to catch him off guard. Besides, I prefer it this way. I want him to beg me for the one thing he can't buy before I claim my inheritance."

Aimeric's dark eyes darted back to the door of Thomas's study.

"So you're really going to do it then?"

"Of course," Nicholas replied at once.

"As you planned?"

"Unless you can think of a better way."

"Are you...sure?" Nicholas's sigh of annoyance piqued his anger. "Oh, I know, the whole plan again, and I'm still too simple a stable boy to understand, right?" Anger leaked into Aimeric's voice, but he pressed on. "But I still think poison would be so much easier and far less risky-"

"I have been planning this for six years Aimeric."

"Yes I know, but-"

"And I've been waiting every day since I had to watch that merchant auction off all of my possessions."

"I should have dragged you off sooner," Aimeric grumbled.

"I'm not about to back away now."

"Look, I won't be sorry to see him go either, but–"

"Oh yes, your grudge." Nicholas could feel the heat rising up his neck. "I only lost my friends, my home, and my inheritance, but you, you lost your precious job with the horses."

"For you," Aimeric shot back. "In case you've forgotten."

"It didn't stop you from getting the job here, though, did it?"

Aimeric snorted. "Not my fault your brother has the worst memory in Tollan."

Nicholas gritted his teeth. "He's not my brother."

"Sure, I am, right?"

The sarcasm stung enough to bring Nicholas back to his senses. What was he doing, arguing with his only ally? He shook his head to chase away the remains of his anger. "Good as," he muttered, but Aimeric had turned toward the staircase and did not hear him.

"I'll show you to the servant's quarters," he said.

Nicholas opened his mouth to apologize, but just then one of the other servants slipped in through the back door. No matter how much he wanted to make amends with Aimeric, Nicholas knew better than to talk in another servant's presence. He could remember hearing the gossip as a child, when Bertram's servants thought him too young to pay attention, and he knew that they would find it suspicious if the relatively new steward was too friendly with the very new gardener.

--30--

Taming the rose bush was no easy task, but no gardener worth the name should have needed more than a day to complete it. Nicholas strew thorny branches across the yard, knowing that the mess gave the appearance of progress and prevented closer inspection during his absences. He had planned from the beginning to take breaks, to use the time winning the other servants' favor. However, in all his calculations, the servants had no faces and they came easily to his side. Now that he had secured a position in the manor, he found that the servants were, in fact, quite real. Most had served Thomas for all six years of Nicholas's absence, and most were at least twice his age. What right did he, an eighteen-year-old pseudo-gardener with only a few hours' experience, have to take away the man, however terrible, who provided them security?

By midday, Nicholas had not spoken to anyone, and the longer he fiddled pointlessly with the rose bushes, the more he worried that he might have lost his ability to make friends on the long road from the round to the manor.