The Nobles in their high towers titter and smile at one another while the rest of us toil in the muck.
Dalmar the Dissident
Viscount Byar’s ballroom was, much like the rest of his residence, built in a newer style. While there was the usual upper and lower level, the dancefloor was made of dark wood, rather than light, to blend better with the surrounding carpets and there was more room for mingling rather than formal dancing. The ball itself was less formal as well. There were no individual announcements for each arrival, rather the Viscount would meet with each invitee individually as they arrived, say a few words, and send them through to mingle.
As Solomon was his guest, he was the first there and so stood with a glass of champagne in his hand. It wouldn’t be appropriate for him to eat until he’d danced at least twice, or spent a significant time talking. That was unfortunate, as the Viscount had a delicious buffet set at one end of the room with heavy, and likely illegal, spices causing it all to smell spectacular.
Before he could even finish a quarter of his glass he found himself being approached by an older man and woman. The man was rotund with a thick white mustache and the woman was eerily thin holding a cigarette delicately between her fingers.
“Good Evening, I’m Baron Vimm Mund and this is Baroness Gret Mund.”
“Good evening. Solomon Morrow,” he held out his hand and exchanged a shake with the Baron then took the Baroness’s hand gently in his own giving it a soft squeeze before releasing it.
“It is an honor, Lord Morrow. I had the privilege of meeting your father on many occasions at the capital.”
“Oh really? May I ask where?”
“I hold a place in parliament. He and I were both men of the Firm Hand.”
“Ah, of course. I should’ve been able to tell just from your handshake.”
The man laughed.
“I’ve heard much of you and your recent experiences, Lord Morrow. I do hope you’re doing okay?” asked the Baroness.
“I’m quite well. A few adjustments are always to be expected when settling into a new home.”
“Yes, but it's rare that those adjustments include being attacked by thirty guards, then having to save a man from a pack of violent wolves.”
Solomon laughed. “It was nothing so dramatic as all that. There were far fewer than thirty men, and I never even saw what attacked us in the woods. I was far too busy trying to leave them.”
“Still, to fight off so many yourself and to risk yourself to save a mere huntsman… it’s quite brave.”
“I was not alone. I would not have survived without the bravery of my servants, and had the trapper not been so diligent in showing me the path through the forest I very well could’ve been lost.”
“You’re too modest,” said the woman taking a moment to have a puff of her cigarette. In his father’s estate there was a smoking room off the ballroom, but things in Etling seemed to be a bit different.
“Yes, you must be careful with a trait like that this far from the capital. Around here you’re expected to exaggerate everything about yourself that you can. Otherwise you won't fit in,” said the Baron.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he responded with a smile.
With that the couple made their way to the buffet and Solomon saw that a dozen more people had shuffled in and were eyeing him for the opportunity to talk. He smiled and took a long sip of his champagne.
The next hour was filled with men and women approaching him to probe him about what had happened at his estate. They were filled with praise and every time he attempted to deflect or give credit to others for his survival it seemed only to raise their esteem of him. After a particularly excruciating conversation with a textile merchant he managed to extricate himself and began to head toward the buffet. He was hoping that food in his mouth would allow him the opportunity to have a short rest before he began looking for those merchants that represented logging and mining interests he wanted to speak to.
Before he could make it to the buffet, he found himself ambushed by a familiar face. It was Priscilla, the green eyed woman he’d met in the gambling hall.
“Purple is quite a striking colour to be wearing for every outfit,” she said as she looked him up and down.
Solomon shrugged. “I like what I like. I’m not very good at blending in anyway, so it seems best to lean into it.”
She nodded, “A good attitude.”
“I’m sorry, we haven’t met properly. I’m Solomon Morrow.”
She smiled and offered her hand, placing it gently in his. “Priscilla Irons.”
He gave her hand a squeeze, taking note of the lack of a title placed at the front of her name.
“May I ask how you know, Viscount Byars?” he asked.
“We have many similar business interests, and share a similar idea of what constitutes a good time.”
“And may I inquire as to what those business interests are?” he asked.
“I am the owner of a number of mines throughout the region. I’m the majority owner of the Iron Pick company.”
Solomon raised an eyebrow. “Then in a way you could say that we’ve already met.”
“Yes. My people did receive your letter of introduction to our company. I must say I’m very curious as to where you are hoping for things to lead from there.”
Solomon ignored his empty stomach and held out his hand. “How about we start at the dancefloor and move from there?” he asked.
She smiled, a twinkle in her green eyes. “I suppose we can do that.”
With that he gently led her to the dancefloor. The musicians had been taking a brief break between songs, but once the floor had been filled again they started back up, playing a jaunty and quick tune in a new style.
Solomon placed his left hand on Priscilla’s waist and began moving through the steps he’d memorized over years of dance practice. She responded by pulling him close with her own hand and forcing him to dance and nearly double the time he’d intended. By the time the song was done he was fighting to hide the fact that he was out of breath.
She smiled, seeing clearly through his deception as he led her from the dancefloor.
“So. What are your intentions with me?” she asked.
He caught the double meaning easily and smiled as he gestured to a servant to have another drink brought to him.
“A partnership. You assist me in reopening the mine in return for a majority of all profits from it.”
“I thought Moonfallow’s mine was no longer productive?”
“It wasn’t a half a century ago, but mining techniques have come a long way since then have they not? Besides, it was still producing some manarite, it was primarily closed down due to an accident.”
“It’s true. Iron Pick has made a fair amount by utilizing those techniques you mention in our mines. Manarite is in particular demand with the Union’s rail project as well. What kind of profit share were you thinking?”
“Eighty-Twenty,” he said.
She smiled. “So I provide all of the infrastructure and expertise reopening an old mine and I’m only entitled to an eighty percent profit.”
“An eighty percent pure profit. No additional taxation on the profit from Moonfallow.”
“Ninety percent,” she replied. “You can keep the taxes and fees though. Should wind up closer to eighty-five for me after those.”
“I would have some other stipulations. I want only locals to be hired for the work unless it’s highly specialized, and if it is I want them to have the opportunity to be trained for it.”
She shrugged. “They’re already the cheapest local labor we have. I’d favor hiring them anyway.” She took a sip of her drink. “I’ll send an inspector and a few men to test the mine. If he thinks it still has a good potential yield, we can move forward.”
“Fair enough.” He took a sip of his own drink. “I hope you don’t mind if I meet with a few other potential partners.”
She smiled. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t dare think of us as exclusive after only a single date. That’ll take much more time.”
He nodded, feeling a bit hot under the collar and still hungry. Still, he needed to make a strong impression.
“What do you say to one more dance?”
She smiled. “I say, yes.”
He took her hand and led her to the dancefloor again. This time, thankfully, the band was playing a much slower tune which let him catch his breath. When they were done, she gave him a wink and left to go speak with a number of other men and women gathered around.
Solomon finally managed to fight his way to the buffet and sampled some tepid soup and meat. Luckily he was so hungry at that point he didn’t care too much about the low temperature. He ate all of it before finding a few more merchants in logging and mining. None of them were as forward as Priscilla had been, but they all indicated an interest beyond just being polite.
The rest of the ball passed without much fuss.
Solomon was about to walk back to his chambers and enjoy a hot bath, when one of James’s servants cut him off.
“Lord Morrow, master Byar wishes to share a drink with you.”
Solomon nodded, “Of course.” He had barely had a moment to speak to James all throughout the ball, and felt a shared drink and a few words would definitely be appropriate. He followed the servant down a hall leading to an area of the manor he had not yet seen. He could hear the sounds of something being struck. Perhaps a servant beating a rug clean.
The long corridor seemed less decorated and more plain and at the end of the hall he could see some light pouring from a far door. He realized that the sound couldn’t possibly be a servant with a rug. The hits sounded far too wet.
The servant opened the door, and Solomon saw Viscount Byar sitting on a wooden stool in front of a man strung up like a pig at the butcher.