The Vice-Chancellor of the Exchequer's office stank of cigars, brandy and the failings of weak men. A stench that permeated the room from the rich, lustrous and expensive red carpet to the equally ostentatious, and rather hideous, drapes. The latter of which had been surreptitiously drawn for the meeting currently being held, transforming what was already a poorly lit room into an abysmally dim affair indeed.
It’s owner, a portly man in his late fifties, his boot polish black hair as greased as the weasel looking excuse for a mustache that occupied the space below his fisherman hook of nose, was currently hunkered down on the other side of the lavish kashyykian walnut desk. Whispering loudly to another greased up noble with the air of someone that wasn’t sure how to even spell clandestine, let alone engage in any sort of affair.
“
She does come highly recommended, Regis.” The Vice-Chancellor warbled, his pet weasel twitching nervously. “
We could use someone with her particular… Ah, skillset? … This dastardly affair is getting out of hand. That business with Howe…”
“
Howe was a doddering fool, old boy.” Regis harrumphed in turn, sipping at the crystalline flute he held precarious between his sausage-like fingers in one hand while waggling a cigar in the other. A veritable stereotype in an ugly maroon military uniform that came complete with a bar of enough unwarranted metal that he sounded like a windchime in a gale everytime he moved. “
He was one foot in the grave. It was about time someone did the man a favour and put the other in for him.”
“
Regis!”
“
No, this one… How do we know she isn’t working for the other side? I mean, what are the chances someone with such a skillset happened to be on Solay just when we started looking? Seems circumspect if you ask me.”
“
Yes, I suppose it does sound a little suspicious. And it seems there have been some concerns about her, ah, behaviour in the past. Maybe we should -”
“
Stop talking like I’m not three feet away?” The mercenary finally cut in, having grown tired of the show playing out before her. Like Regis, and the Vice-Chancellor, she held a glass of yellow coloured liquor in her hand. The only pleasantry they’d extended her way before engaging in their supposed private conversation. “
Just a thought.”
“
Yes, of course, my apologies Ms. Harrow.” The Vice-Chancellor offered, clearly being as sincere as he was attractive. “
Regis, we do need to stop overlooking the commoners.”
“
Dame.”
“
I beg your pardon?”
“
My title. ‘The Right Honourable Dame Alethea Harrow’ if you want to be exact. ”
“
Ah, yes. Tapani.” Regis remarked in the same tone one would expect from someone finding excrement on their boots. “
They do like to hand those titles out like their candy. Everyone is Sir this, Baron that, Lord Muckity Muck the third.”
“
Oh, Regis, do behave! Whatever will Ms… Dame Harrow think of us if you carry on like this.”
“
Not much.”
“
I’m sorry?”
'Not yet you're not,' the mercenary thought with an drawn out sigh. The foppish jovelity the pair seemed to be enjoying was grating on her nerves, more so because they seemed to think it was at her expense. Fortunately for her, it wasn’t. Unfortunately for them, it wasn’t.
“
You know,” Lethe raised the thin flute of vibrant yellow alcohol to her eye-level. “
I spent the last few days sampling your absurdly good range of liquors. And do you know what I learned during that time?”
It wasn’t a question.
“
That this, Veruvian Sunshine, I believe you called it?” Another non question that didn’t require an answer. She’d done her due diligence and researched her prospective clients ahead of time. Likes, dislikes, hobbies and vices. The latter proved quite enlightening. “
Would pair quite nicely with an ingenious poison called Mycotoxin. I don’t suppose either of you heard of it?”
That got their attention. Enough for a nervous energy to the silence.
A sudden, cold flopsweat beaded the brow of the Vice-Chancellor of the Exchequer, while a look of puzzled, unfocused confusion appeared on the face of the foppish rake that was Sir Regis as the proverbial penny began to drop on who exactly they’d invited into their midst.
Neither stank of guilt, however.
“
Pity.” She murmured, taking a long sip from her own flute. The loyal royalists, the few that had survived the initial and follow up waves of cleanses by the High Houses, had quite the bounty on those behind the late king’s murder.
“
Mycotoxin,” She continued, either unphased or enjoying the sudden discomfort she was causing within the room. “
Is derived from Kytrogorgia. A slimy, garishly coloured little mold. Something to which I’m sure you relate.”
They were either too engrossed or too dense to notice the obvious, lazy inference for what it was.
“
Now consumption of Mycotoxin can cause a wide range of effects depending on the dosage. Several of which, if you’ve been keeping up with current news, you’d recognise from the recent string of illnesses plaguing the capital.” She placed the glass down. “
Of course, most of those were brought about using rather small micro-doses over a longer time frame. Presumably by someone with a great deal more patience than I’m known for.”
“
W-What are you saying?”
“
Gerant, you fool. You know what she’s saying.”
Ah, so Regis wasn’t quite as dumb as he looked. That somehow made it sweeter.
A refreshing change to the bitter citrine taste that coated her mouth.
***
[The Office of the Exchequer was rocked by the tragic loss of Vice-Chancellor Lord Gerant Valorick. Lord Gerant, the heir apparent of the Great House Valorick, passed away in the early hours of Taungsday following a brief, yet valiant struggle with the same unexplained illness that has seen many of this Kingdom’s brightest and finest taken from us all too soon.
Upon assuming the temporary office of the Vice-Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lord Mallor of Great House Morn has vowed to uphold the same rigorous ethics and morals of his predecessor.
In other news, several prominent Solayan companies have seen a dramatic reversal of fortunes following a recent string of tax brea–]
She cut the news holo out with a lazy flick of her wrist. The motion causing a fine trail of white ashes taking flight across the hotel bathroom she’d sequestered herself in since the events of that morning. The cigarette helped dull the edges of the artificial detox. The limited warmth the thin cancerous stick offered served as a welcome distraction to the frigid chill of the ice bath she languished in. Her time with the Mecrosa Order had given her an exceedingly high tolerance for certain chemical concoctions, but there was a limit. One she had played a dangerous game in crossing, however satisfying it might have been.
House Morn certainly seemed to agree.
As did a few other individuals, if her inbox was anything to gauge.
