Maestro
Kellor dropped his head in an apparent pose of submission, but inside he seethed. Dollan had been running roughshod over the palace staff since his father left for the front, and no one had the good sense to stand up and call his bluff. He had no right to remove any of them from office, or even demand they change their practice – the older Ser had been very clear on that point before departing. Still, Ser Dollan had an air of authority about him, along with a hard face and a range of withering looks that put most of those in his father’s service in a state of fear for their livelihoods.
The Ser didn’t scare Kellor, but fighting the man on the choice of music that would be played at the Festday’s grand meal was not worth his time.
“My apologies, Ser Dollan. You are correct, of course. I have been in fortunate to remain in your father’s employ for so long, and sometimes I forget my place.” It was a suitable apology, but carried a reminder of who actually paid his wages. He was no slave, like the chattel property that tended the horses and turned down the bed linens – many of those had been brought from the eastern provinces, and had no hope other than to serve well. His was the realm of music and composition, creation and performance. Arguments over the authenticity of a particular piece written some ten years ago had stalled a rising career, and muted a brilliant muse; Kellor had been forced to seek gainful employment outside the orchestral world. Ser Tallen was a great admirer, and graciously offered a job for as long as Kellor wanted it at a reasonable rate of pay. The younger Ser was a minor inconvenience, and one that had never bothered Kellor until now. Hopefully, bad habits could be broken before the older Ser passed in to the void and his son became the public face of the family.
“Your apologies are of no moment, Maestro, only your actions, so I tell you again – we will have Mageth’s concerto at the Festday, and you will ensure it is played to perfection.” Dollan leaned back in his chair – it stopped just short of being a throne, and certainly had not been left by his father. In the two weeks since Ser Tallen had left, Dollan had made sure that he was bowed and scraped to at every turn, and that he always sat in a room’s tallest chair. It was infantile, but there was no one to pull out the carpet on the young popinjay, and Kellor had no interest in trying to find an edge.
“You shall have what you desire, Ser Dollan,” he said shortly, meeting the other man’s eyes. “I will see to it.”
“I expect nothing less, Maestro. I am the heir, after all.” Dollan paused to glare. “In fact, I think that I may remove the musical staff completely when my father passes on. I’ve never been impressed with the screeching of your strings and the bleating of your trumpets, and the music you compose is truly awful. Think of the money I’ll save with no musicians to employ!”
Deep breaths were his only recourse against a reply that would do no good. Dollan was pushing, trying to goad rash action and form some grounds for dismissal, but Kellor would not give him the satisfaction. If the young Ser wanted the foul strains of Mageth, he would have them.
“You are dismissed, Maestro,” Dollan said when it became apparent he would receive no response. “We will not speak again until the Festday.”
Such an arrangement suited Kellor perfectly, and found his spirits lifting as he swept out of the Ser’s presence and into the palace itself. Dollan clearly believed he had set an impossible task, but the orchestra was familiar with Mageth, many of its members having come from the southern opera house. Their performance would not be flawless, but Dollar would never know the difference; his blackened soul made him unable to recognize either beauty or its opposite.
”You’re sure?” A gruff voice came down the corridor, and Kellor stopped, feet quiet on deep carpet. The sergeant-at-arms had a distinct cadence to his voice, along with a graveled rumble.
“Yeah,” an unfamiliar tone replied. “got the report this morning. Natural causes, they say, which is exactly what Dollan wanted.”
“Idiot!” The sergeant barked. “Poisoning his father – that’s a risky game, Gemmel, and one I wouldn’t play even for this kind of power.” There was a sharp laugh. “Money, though, that’s something else entirely. I’ve got no love for the young pup, but he paid me enough to retire.”
The other man – Gemmel – spoke again. “Money spends, and without all that pesky business about conspiracy to commit murder. At least, so long as no one ever knows you’re the one who packed Ser’s travelling bags.”
“I didn’t.” the sergeant’s tone was scathing. “What do you take me for, Gemmel? I guess when you’ve been a two-bit merc as long as you have, instincts get a little rusty.” There was the sound of steel being bared and a hiss of breath, but no cries followed, no heavy bodies crumpled to the floor.
“That’s right, little man,” the sergeant said finally, “put that blade away. Take your pay and get out of my sight, or I’ll make sure you never live to spend it.”
“You’re not worth it,” Gemmel rasped out, and Kellor heard the quick tread of feet speeding down away. Steeling himself, he picked up his pace and walked quickly forward, meeting the sergeant around the next hallway corner.
“Maestro!” He said brightly, “coming from a visit with our little Ser? Gods, but I hope his father returns soon.”
“As do I, sergeant,” Kellor said, thoughts spinning. “as do I.” Notes ran through his mind, phrases of music he’d never been able to clearly see. His muse had returned, a fragile thing – a traitor’s lament.
- D
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