Chapter 249: Dinner with Solomon Drisford

Solomon Drisford and I continue staring each other down for what feels like hours. In a way, it feels like a battle in and of itself to see who will blink first. I fight against the temptation, knowing that it may very well make me appear weaker in his harsh, judgmental eyes. I can’t risk even the smallest screw-up, so I refuse to blink.

This staredown drags out until Bertrand comes in through the kitchen door, clasping his hands together. Despite my presence, the Chamberlain is wearing his exceedingly fake, happy smile as he rushes to the center of the table. As is his duty, he makes a gratuitous introduction of my dinner mate. “Honored guest, may I have the privilege of introducing you to Count Solomon Drisford? Count of Grundlun and the Lord Steward of Arrark serving under Duke Osbourne Gloomcrest. As Lord Steward, his duties include-”

Without taking his eyes off away from my own, Solomon cuts Bertrand off and addresses me. “You know what a Steward is, yes, Guild Master?”

I’m roughly aware of the structure and chain of command in the noble houses, so I answer, “In simple terms, you manage the day-to-day financial affairs of the Duke’s household and are expected to make decisions on his behalf in his absence. You’re essentially the second in command, correct?”

“Correct.” Count Drisford proclaims in an unimpressed tone of voice. “Your explanation is unnecessary, Bertrand. Take this lesson to heart and shut your insufferable trap. Then, go and bring me a whisky so strong it gives me a temporary reprieve from the memory of your miserable, conniving, cunty little face.”

“Absolutely,” Bertrand bows with incredible speed and an almost masochist glee. Then, with those fraudulent, grinning eyes of his, the Chamberlain makes an unexpected assault on my character. “Would our beloved guest like yet another bottle of expensive wine, or does he only drink when he’s in the midst of nigh outright exhibitionist sex not even fifty feet away from our Duke?”

That fucking asshole. I can’t believe he just said that- Bertrand is trying to sabotage my meeting. It takes everything I have to reign in my self-control and pretend that his comment has no effect on me, but something unexpected happens before I boil over.

Count Drisford moves for the first time since I’ve met him, and he does it to take a bowl of boiling hot mashed potatoes off the dining table and throw it directly at the Chamberlain’s face hard enough for the porcelain to shatter into dozens of shards that fly off in different directions. Bertrand screams from the searing pain brought on by the hot, infernal potatoes, but the Count doesn’t even spare him a glance. He just looks back into my eyes like he didn’t just do this outrageous action and continues on the same as ever.

Despite keeping his gaze on me, the Count does address the Chamberlain, and he is anything but happy. “Your pathetic attempt at dragging down this man’s character is inexcusable, Bertrand. I care nothing for what sort of sex a man does or doesn’t have. That has as little to do with his character as the air he breathes or the color of his skin. No, Bertrand. You will give the man whatever drink he wants, and you will stand here for the remainder of dinner and continue to serve to the best of your minimal capability. Furthermore, you are not permitted to wipe the mashed potatoes from your duplicitous face until the morrow. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Count Drisford, I’m... I’m very sorry, my Lord!” The Chamberlain speaks, writing in pain. Some of the potatoes fall from his face, revealing red, scorched skin where they hit.

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to.” Count Drisford eagerly reminds Bertrand, knowing that apologizing to me will no doubt hurt the young nobleman’s pride.

Bertrand hesitates for a split second before turning toward me and bowing. “I am sorry for my passive-aggressive behavior and my inability to keep myself from acting on my intense personal dislike of you, Sir. It is very unprofessional of me, and I will attempt to reign myself in from this point onward!” He barks like a dog, saying words he doesn’t actually mean in a frightened, whimpered tone. “To make it up to you, may I offer you a drink?”

Dear Gods, Opalina was right. If I lost control and punched him, it still wouldn’t be as bad as what Bertrand apparently puts up with around here. I try to hold back my amazement, and I end up defaulting to a classic beverage in my shaken state. “That... would be lovely, thank you. Do you have any dry, dwarven stout beers?”

There’s a glimmer in the Count’s eye when he hears that.

“Of course, Sir, an excellent choice!” Bertrand says through a thick layer of mashed potatoes. He runs away and returns with a gratuitous tankard of my drink at an almost inhuman speed. His fear of Count Drisford must awaken the ability to enter some sort of super butler state of being...

Bertrand sets it down in front of me before taking his place several feet away from the center of the table. I sample the beer and enjoy the familiar taste that washes over my tongue. “Excellent. Thank you, Bertrand.”

“My pleasure, si-blagh!” As he talks, a lump of mashed potatoes falls off his nose and onto his tongue, interrupting his sentence and making him appear like even more of a fool. While I think the punishment may have been a bit too cruel, I won’t pretend it doesn’t give me abject joy to see him in such a state.

Just as my thoughts start dwelling overlong on the misery of Bertrand, Count Drisford begins to speak. “Twenty-one years ago,” He reminisces, “I met with another Guild Master from Dewhurst right here in this very room. He, too, asked for that same drink.”

There’s no one else it could possibly be. “You met my grandfather, I take it?”

“I indeed had the displeasure. He was searching for a way to cure some ocular troubles you were having, I believe. Despite my hatred of the man’s character, I allowed him to speak to our resident Court Mage. Nothing came of it, but judging by those obviously magical glasses sitting atop that sharp nose of yours, it seems he got what he wanted in the end somehow or another.”

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Remembering the lengths that my grandfather went to make life tolerable for me sends pangs of nostalgia running through my heart. Regardless, I cast the feelings aside and press on, unfettered. “If you disliked him so much, why did you allow him an audience?”

“Because, Guild Master, there are men in this Realm who have the power of always getting what they want through the power of their words and determination alone. Your grandfather was one such man, and now I have the honor of judging whether or not you share his gift. Beyond that, I am not a cruel man.”

“I didn’t say you were, Count-”

“Silence. I know how I appear toward others. Cold. Uncaring. Calculated. All I’m saying is despite this, I am not the sort of person who would turn someone away if it meant helping an innocent child who has done no wrong.”

The more he speaks, the more convinced I am that Solomon Drisford is a good, honest man who is merely unapproachable due to his rough exterior. Although he embodies the spirit of the Drisford Gargoyle for all intents and purposes, his heart is anything but stone.

“Before we eat, I must tell you that I’m very unimpressed. Personality-wise you’ve beaten your late grandfather by spades, but otherwise, you wouldn’t be here if not for the testimony of Miss Hart. Although I admit, the capture of Percival Chasteworthe proved to me that it may not have been wrong to cave to her demands. You may yet blossom, despite the miserable state of affairs in Dewhurst.”

“My Lord, may I be frank?”

“Speak.”

“I don’t care about impressing you. I’m here to make my case and argue for it because I know damn well my own worth. I may not know what this business will entail just yet, but I do know if you stand in the way of my Guild attaining the fortune it needs to improve itself, then I’ll take you on just like any other obstacle.”

The tiniest fraction of a smile appears on the Count’s face for not even a millisecond before it fades away. “Good answer. Goddesses know there are enough ass-kissers in this court as it is. Is that not right, Bertrand?”

“Absolutely, Count Drisford! One can’t even walk a single step down the castle halls without being assailed by an incessant kisser of ass!” He incoherently mutters through his fearful trembling. I’m sure the implication wasn’t lost on him, but he’s too afraid to do anything other than mindlessly agree. Solomon has no response to the Chamberlain’s abject stupidity.

“For now, let us eat.” The statuesque man moves his hand to gesture at the meal placed before us. “This discussion can continue after we’ve broken bread.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Everything looks wonderful, and I’ve not had much to eat all day aside from... well, a rather delicious breakfast that I shared with my pet kittens.”

I agree whole-heartedly and using my best manners, I begin to eat several servings from across the table. My inner poor person must be showing through because I end up with a massive plate of things I know I won’t eat compared to Count Drisford, who only has a sampling of a handful of dishes.

Regardless of how it makes me look, I tear through the various rich people foods and enjoy everything on offer. Scant conversation is had here and there. I thank Bertrand for fetching me dishes from across the opposite end of the table. Count Drisford recommends a few foods I thank him for, and I tell the Chamberlain to give my thanks to the chefs.

Our meal goes by without incident, although I catch the Count judging me occasionally with his eyes. Fair enough, considering how I also stare at him and gauge his character through his body language. I get the feeling we’re a lot alike, honestly, which means this is going to be an uphill battle.

Bertrand, face still mired with spuds, takes our plates away with overexaggerated eagerness. Count Drisford and I lock eyes once again, ready for the tense battle masked as a conversation to continue.

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