The Vampire & Her Witch

Chapter 1645: Dealing with Rats

By the time Baron Stackpole and his knights reached the Great Hall, a feast was already underway. The scents of grilled and poached fish filled the air, along with savory, spiced rice stuffed into the shells of hundreds of mussels, and the sweet, heady aroma of honeyed pear wine.

Strangely, however, at least to Breton’s eyes, not a single servant moved between the tables. Casks of wine had been placed at every table, and an entire extra table had been filled with sweets from Ship’s Bell Pudding to preserved pear tarts, ready and waiting for the guests in the hall to come and take as they wished.

"’Bout time you showed up, Breton," Baron Mervyn called in a rich, booming voice when he saw his bearded friend enter the Great Hall at last. "We were starting to worry that you’d run yourself aground!"

"You mean you were hoping I’d run myself aground," Breton countered as he made his way to the high table. "So you’d have someone else to share your misery with. It’ll take more than a winter squall to put me in such dire straits," he said with a warm laugh before his expression turned apologetic.

"But winter winds were enough to close the port to me at Breaker Isle," he said as he knelt before Count Rhys. "I had to come the long way ’round, my Lord," Breton apologized. "I’m sorry to keep you waiting."

"It’s fine, Breton," Rhys said with a genuine smile. "Better late than lost at sea. Take your seat and fill your plate," he said, gesturing at the last remaining seat at the High Table. "We’ll get started soon. Tonight’s news is important," he said solemnly. "But not so urgent that it can’t wait for a man to fill his belly."

"I think you’re enjoying this, my Lord," Baron Cir Recarde said, tugging on the twisted end of his oiled mustache. "You’re the man of mystery tonight, and we’re all wondering what you’ve summoned us for, but you haven’t given us a single hint or clue."

"No hints or clues?" Baron Domenec Hender said with a snort that fluttered through the white strands of his long beard. "He’s blacked the sails of the fleet and summoned the descendants of the First Crew. We’ve come at his call with neither wives nor heirs on a night we should be feasting in our own halls," he pointed out.

"Lord Rhys isn’t a petty man," Domenec concluded. "He didn’t force us to join him for a bachelor’s feast because he missed his own wife and girls. If that’s not hint enough, then I don’t know what is."

"Hint for what?" Baron Amren Dalais said. It wasn’t that he didn’t have his own suspicions, but having suspicions and speaking them aloud were two different things. "Can you divine our lord’s will simply by virtue of your long years, or did you learn something from him on your trip to Keating?"

"Enough," Rhys said, raising his hand before the conversation could go any further. "Breton’s just come in from the cold. Let him warm his hands and his belly before we start with the news. There’s time yet before we speak of serious things."

"Sir Prudici," Rhys said, turning to one of his most formidable knights sitting at the table closest to the High Table. "Take your men, sweep the halls, and see that four men are stationed at every door and passageway leading here. If a rat wants to listen at the door, I want it in irons and ready to answer questions when dinner’s done."

"Yes, my Lord," the veteran knight said, raising from his seat and saluting with a fist to his chest before stepping out of the Great Hall.

"You’re all going to become ’men of mystery’ after tonight, I’m afraid," Rhys said, shaking his head as he met Baron Cir Recarde’s inquisitive gaze. "The orders you’ll give your men will seem strange until the time comes to explain yourselves. If any of you have rats on your ships that you’ve been tolerating because their whispers do no harm," he added, sweeping his gaze across the assembled lords.

"It’s time to set your cats loose on them," Rhys said. "I don’t care who their masters are or how harmless their spying has been. After tonight, every man rows together, or he goes overboard."

"Are you certain of that, my Lord?" Breton asked, pausing with a serving spoon still in hand and a plate that was only half filled. "A rat can be useful if you can monitor its meals and choose its food."

"Not this time, my friend," Rhys said, shaking his head. "This time, there are too many rats to keep track of, and they scurry to too many places. It would be one thing if we only needed to keep the Duke in the dark, or the King’s men, but this time, we’re up against too many foes to keep them all misinformed, and too many of them will talk to each other once things become obvious."

"The isles are hard to infest, my Lord," Baron Mervyn said, giving a pointed look at the land-locked lords. "But some places are more vulnerable than others."

"I keep a clean house," Baron Amren Dalais protested. "The most I deal with are merchantmen prying into the ledgers of their competitors and petty feuds fueled by rumors no one can prove."

"You deal with the Church, Amren," Rhys countered. "You and Cir both, far more than they do on the isles, and closing a port won’t stop a messenger from fleeing their temples. So be mindful of the men who offer counsel and the ones with masters outside your borders. This isn’t a time for carelessness," he warned.

The presence of spies in his domain was inevitable, and half the men he’d consider spies wouldn’t even consider themselves as such. If a High Priest or an Inquisitor asked a village acolyte for news, the acolyte would answer freely without ever thinking that the things he’d observed casually or overheard might be of great importance to the people in power asking the questions.

It was the same for countless tradesmen, sailors, and even housewives. Rumors would grow wings, and men and women would share things they didn’t know were meant to be private. Worst of all would be the rumors that sprang from his vassals’ own lips in the form of quiet reassurances or well-intentioned warnings so that their subordinates could ’prepare themselves.’

The people in the Great Hall now were the inheritors of a legacy of trust. Even if they held no title and their ancestors had been nothing more than humble oarsmen on the Black Tide, the hidden history of the First Crew had been preserved in their families for generation after generation, else they wouldn’t have answered the call.

It hadn’t been easy to build a legacy like this one. Sometimes, the most direct descendant died without heirs to pass on the tradition and other members of the ’crew’ were forced to track down the next in line to be read into the legacy, but Phylip Blackwell had made a promise to the Mother of Tides that one day, the Eldritch people could return to Blackwell Bay and the isles beyond it, and the descendants of his crew inherited that oath.

Years ago, when Ashlynn was born, and no one answered his call, Rhys had believed that the Eldritch had broken their end of the bargain, abandoning him and his people to their fate. Only recently had he come to learn that someone else had interfered with the beacon that allowed him to call for aid from the coven of the Mother of Tides.

But that revelation only made today’s warning more important. It was impossible to keep a domain as large as Blackwell County free of rats. But if there was a rat among this crew... Rhys wouldn’t have much time to discover them and deal with them before they gnawed a hole in the bottom of his ship.