Gregory Blartrap

Gregory Blartrap was trapped, of all things, in a legal struggle. His father, Francois Blartrap, had just recently passed, and had left some remarkably unclear instructions as to the fate of his esteemed estate.

The first line, for instance: “The following objects and items, should they belong to me, shall be given to my eldest son, Robert, insofar as his brother retains ownership of my lodging on Nimius.” This seems a reasonable request, and any logical person might expect the following sentence to describe which events should take place if the brother, namely Gregory, were to relinquish ownership of the lodging. This logical person, however, has clearly never had the pleasure of conversing with Mr. Blartrap. If they had, they would expect something more akin to what really followed: “Gregory shall retain ownership of said lodging until such time as his brother relinquishes possession of the following objects and items, should they belong to me.” These two simple sentences brought up such a multitude of questions, it took the brothers three weeks and four legal counsellors to determine how to proceed from there. The least of these questions was whether or not dear Francois had any idea as to what “insofar” meant.

Gregory and his brother walked abreast to the counsellor’s office every morning at around dawn-thirty. They walked in an awkward silence for the bell and a half it took to make the trip. Any other nobleborn would have taken carriage or horseback, but Mr. Blartrap believed that such comforts led to a soft bum. Gregory always admired this sentiment. He never rode a horse, no matter how far his destination happened to be. Thusly, his legs were as toned as burnt steaks. Robert, on the other hand, rode whatever he could find: horse, servant, even a large catfish on one occasion.

On this particular morning, however, no such steed was found. Robert was, understandably, cross. Meanwhile, Gregory seemed oblivious to his brother’s plight, choosing instead to focus on the cobbles beneath his feet and the country air filling his lungs. The pair strolled down the wide avenues connecting the other estates, all of which were guarded by thick, imposing cobblestone walls. The road was mostly clear and the mansions quiet, because the wealthy rarely went about their business before noon. The sun battered their necks, but the ample shade provided by the oaks and aspens lining the street kept most of her rays at bay. Every so often there was a servant tending to their master’s animals or trimming the shrubs, to whom Robert gave a curt nod and Gregory a gentle smile.

After a long walk through the quiet countryside, the large, lavish estates to either side morphed into smaller, less pompous abodes. The servants were replaced with farmhands, the stone walls with wooden fences. Eventually these, too, gave way to even smaller houses which huddled closer together the farther they strolled from their home. Finally, they reached the enormous stone wall, crafted with thick, regular blocks of dark stone. The wall exceeded twice a man’s height and had width to match. It encircled the city, and had once protected it from all manner of invader. Now, years of neglect had begun showing cracks in the mortar and wear in the stones.

The young nobles drifted into a waking city, one that smelled of fresh bread and a light sea breeze. The apartments and tenements were neatly organized, as the blocks were in the city wall. The streets were immaculately clean, and the morning garbage team was collecting any discarded flyers or fruit that had been left there during the night. People leaned from their windows, shaking out bedsheets and hanging clothes on lines. Here and there was the scurrying and shouting of the local children, lost in the world of their own games.

Gregory thought fondly on his childhood days. When he was too old to be content playing inside, and his brother too young to ship off to boarding school, they would pass a whole afternoon before their mother begged that they at least drink some water before playing on into the night. Such days were long past, of course. Now, the only revelry found in his life was that of masquerades and other such festivities. He did enjoy the lavish parties and hosted dinners, but nothing could match the raw joy he used to feel wrestling with Robert.

After another half bell of walking they finally came to a stop at the only law office that agreed to take their case: “Grinka and Hamuk.” The old, brick building stuck out, as parts of it were in various states of disrepair. The windows were smudged with grime, the front door sun-bleached, the stairs cracked, and the sign out front had the faded outlines of what used to be a third name.

The inside looked just as ramshackle. Stray papers littered the splintered floorboards. Grinka, a stout goblin with red painted lips, sat at her near-empty desk. She scribbled furiously on a parchment. Hamuk was nowhere to be seen, which was unsurprising. His few clients rarely appeared before midday, and stayed for so short a time that the poor dwarf was considering taking house calls.

“Ah, there they are! My favorite customers!” Grinka exclaimed. She quickly shoved her semi-erotic doodling beneath her desk and laced her fingers in a show of professionalism. “What can I assist you with?”

The next four hours did not pass, so much as limply drag themselves along a road of broken glass. After an hour-long argument about the difference between a couch and a loveseat, the three gave up their frustrated ramblings and decided to head to the nearest pub for some food and ale.

The trio sauntered into the only bar on the island, “Porkboy.” It catered almost exclusively to sailors and thus had a rough air about it. It was a large place, and even had restrooms that fed into the town’s main sewer line – a rare occurrence among any pub within the Adhaesit Terra archipelago. The floors used to be plain birch wood, but were now stained a deep brown from the decades of ale washing over it. After several minutes of jostling through the boisterous bodies, they finally found a table near a back wall.

Their chairs were all held in place by the muscular men surrounding them, so sitting down took some maneuvering. After much deliberation, the group decided to order the only thing one could at this fine establishment. They drew straws, and Greg came out on bottom. With a sigh, he clambered out of his chair and struggled to the bar.

He was about or order when he noticed the man seated next to him. He had a long, black cloak with the hood up and an empty goblet resting on the table before him. Gregory cocked an eyebrow.

“You seem an interesting fellow,” Gregory said. “I’ll buy you a drink, but only if you tell me your story.” He dropped a few silvers on the bar and motioned to the bartender.

“Fine. But you won’t like what you hear.” The stranger’s voice was gruff and smelled of old booze. This warning, of course, only pricked Gregory’s ears more. The barkeep placed Gregory’s order before him, but the boy ignored them. The stranger then spun a peculiar tale of subterfuge and intrigue. Of a clandestine operation built to undermine the very foundations of Adhaesit Terra’s government. An operation which needed someone who knew the island of Nimius as he knows his own mind. Gregory listened to this story-turned-proposition, and glanced at his arrogant brother and their disgruntled lawyer.

Robert and Grinka were left alone, bored, and famished. They could see no sign of Gregory through the seething bodies. After a tense silence, Robert finally tired of waiting, and squeezed out of his chair. By the time he finally reached the bar to see what was taking Gregory so long, all that was left were two empty mugs and a tray of cold pork.

An hour later, Gregory stepped through a beaded curtain into a living room. The silence was disturbed only by birdsong and the whispering of a thousand leaves. Tapestries, shimmering in the afternoon light, adorned the stone walls. They depicted scenes of heroes and gods he’d never heard of. Flowery carpets covered the floor between stuffed leather couches that faced the cold hearth. Upon a central, ornately carved wooden table sat what could only be described as a vase of wine and three goblets. A young woman with fiery hair was inspecting the tapestries. She glanced at Gregory as the stranger waved him in, disinterested.

“Good afternoon, Joseph. I see you’ve brought a friend.” Gregory quietly looked around the room to see if there was another “friend” she could have been talking about. She continued, “I’ve always loved these weavings. Such powerful figures, lost to history.”

“Normally I would be delighted to hear another monologue, but we’ve little time,” the stranger – Joseph – replied. “This is Gregory, he’s decided to aid us in our… quest.”

“Excellent. Would you both care for some wine?” The woman crossed to the couches, and began pouring the dark liquid. Joseph gestured to the seats, and Gregory felt a sudden flash of pride. Robert rarely allowed his brother to precede him anywhere. The two men took their seats as well as their cups. The wine was smooth and bitter along Gregory’s throat, and left him with a strange bout of hiccups.

“So – Ma’am – what would you have me – do?” Gregory struggled magnificently through the spasms in his gut.

“A simple task, really. There’s a certain nobleman who has been giving our organization a great deal of trouble. He has connections in greater Terran government, almost as many as we do. Worst of all, he seems to know who our contacts are and has been blocking any legislation our allies have proposed. Naturally, this cannot continue. I want him killed.” She then leaned back and sipped her drink.

At this, Gregory choked on his wine. “Killed? I’m sor – sorry ma’am, I’m not an assassin.”

“Oh, of course not. You’re too delicate for such a career. No, I simply need you to be a guide for our team.”

“Oh. Well – if you’ll permit me, I’d like some – time to think it over.” Gregory put down his goblet, and made to stand.

“You shall have all the time you require, but I can’t let you return home.” Joseph stood to block the door, and brandished a phial which seemed to contain liquid fire.

“Terrific. Shall I be – staying here, then?” Gregory asked, attempting to act brave. Needless to say, his bluff didn’t succeed.

“Certainly, if this decision should take you all night. You must understand, loyalty is imperative to our organization. If news of this particular conversation were to spread, your days would be, understandably, numbered.” She finished this with a smile and another sip. “Truly delightful brew. Joseph, send my complements to Gareth.”

“Absolutely, Gillian.” With that, he bowed and took his leave.

Gregory shifted in place, not sure what to do with himself. He had half a mind to accept the offer, but another half to leap from the window and vanish into the wilderness. Ignoring both of these whims, he approached the most intricate tapestry and studied its design.

It was woven in mostly mauve and gold thread, with a border of immaculate detail and scenes of even more so. It seemed to depict a village scattered across the back of a great beast, with jaws of rock and eyes of fire. The village was defending itself from dragons which descended from the heavens. They were terrible, winged things which plucked children from their mothers’ arms and burned the houses to ashes. Below this was a tower rising into the sky, surrounded by people knelt in prayer. The top of the tower was the only part of the tapestry that utilized a third color, a green light shining down upon its acolytes. The final image was one of a lone mountain, wreathed in cloud and shrouded in darkness.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Gillian had crossed the room without Gregory’s noticing. “It’s the story of a village putting to rest an ancient god. It’s funny; in some tellings, the tower was built by a renegade group. They went against their elders’ wishes, and saved their entire people.”

“But, the god didn’t die,” Gregory said, silently thankful that his hiccups were gone, “it was only put to sleep.”

“An astute observation. I can see you learned well in your studies.”

“History was always my favorite subject.”

“Indeed. Strange that stories such as these are taught in history books, wouldn’t you say?”

Gregory shrugged. “Maybe there’s some truth to them.” He turned back to the tapestry.

“Perhaps,” Gillian mused. She drifted over to the couch and poured herself more wine. Eventually, Gregory followed and poured himself some as well.

“If I accept your offer, what would I receive in return?” Gregory avoided her gaze and instead studied the goblet in his hand. It was very nice looking, with brass plating and –

“Well, payment, of course, but judging by your clothes it seems you’ve no lack of that. We can offer you a favor in return.”

He sipped his wine, carefully crafting his next sentence. “Would it be possible for you to provide some legal help?”

“Of course, that’s the least of the services we can provide. How long will they be in prison?”

“What – oh, no, nothing like that. My father’s will is extremely confusing.” He finally worked up the courage to glance at her eyes, which displayed only confusion.

The living room felt much smaller than it really was, at least to Gregory’s eyes. The hearth was lit, casting long, twisting shadows across the tapestries. There were only five other people in the room, but they all looked to him for instruction. He’d been a friend of the target’s family since childhood, so knew the layout of the house as well as the schedule of the servants and guards. Still, he didn’t feel like the expert in the room. In fact, he felt like the least qualified person for the job.

After a painful moment of silence, Gregory finally cleared his throat and directed his attention to the room. Gillian and Joseph were in attendance, as well as an elite squad consisting of two assassins and a high mage. “Right. Well. Mr. Jeswick lives with his wife and five servants. The servants arise at dawn to attend to their chores, but the man and wife don’t wake until noon, as the rich are wont to do. The house normally has two guards for each of the three entrances at night, who are relieved by the servants in the morning. Four guards typically patrol the hallways during the day. I think our easiest bet is to sneak in during the morning, and kill him while they’re sleeping. He has a vault just off the kitchens, in the center of the estate. If one of his guards should sound the alarm, his plan would be to hide in there. We can intercept him on his way.”

Even Gillian looked impressed with his strategy. He could mention that the last time he was invited into the Jeswick estate was seven years ago, but there was always the worry that he might become… a loose end. Best to keep some details to himself. Besides, what could possibly have changed so much in that time?

The squad was hidden beneath some brush, and had a clear sight of the estate. It was a massive building of four stories, and the balcony above the front doors was supported by four pillars. The walls weren’t even built from the dark stone resident to the island, but from fired bricks. These were likely shipped from Decipula, the penal colony to the east. The front garden stretched for sixty paces from the front door to the stone wall, and was positively peppered with pines and poppies and pristine hedges, all manicured to unrivalled perfection.

Gregory tried not to be jealous.

The group had snuck over the wall just after sunrise, and spent the next hour creeping ever closer to the front door. The two assassins split off, in an attempt to flank the guards at the entrance.

After what felt like an hour, they were no more than fifteen paces from the front doors, which were thrown wide open to allow for carts and such to pass later on in the day. Something about this scene tickled Gregory’s memory, but he couldn’t quite pin it down.

After a moment, he threw the assassins a signal and they sprang into motion. The first one threw two small knives that hit the far guard in the chest and neck. At the same time, the second leapt from the brush. The first guard staggered and choked out a feeble cry for help. His companion turned and opened his mouth the scream. The mage waved a hand and muttered a spell, and his cry fell silent. The second assassin stuck a knife in his throat. The two guards fell, twitching, to the ground. Gregory tried to shake off a wave of nausea as the assassins dragged their victims into the bushes. After these were dealt with, the crew stepped through the doorway and into the waking house.

The inside was just as luxurious as the gardens suggested. The floors were polished stone, the same dusky shade as the outer walls. They shined in the light and reflected the pale birch paneling covering the walls. This was lined with a faint blue dye, enough to give a contrast but not so much as to appear gaudy. In fact, nothing in this estate was gaudy in the slightest. The imported plants sat in finely decorated vases. The paintings depicted scenes of both battle and peace. The furniture was stuffed with just the right amount of feathers to be comfortable. Everything had a place, and it was all specifically chosen and meticulously crafted to show the owner’s wealth as subtly as possible.

Gregory was fuming.

The mercenaries crept down the hallway at a snail’s sprint. The old house creaked and yawned. With each noise, the group halted for several breaths, prepared for someone to take note of their presence.

Eventually, they came to a narrow hallway with a bend at the far end and a broom closet to their right. They were just past the closet when they heard footsteps and the telltale shimmer of chain mail from around the bend. The two assassins and the mage got into position: the assassins in front, knives at the ready, and the mage behind with a healing spell prepared. Gregory decided that the best place he could be was out of the way, so he opened the closet door and prepared to take his leave. He froze.

Inside the closet was an assortment of brooms and other cleaning supplies, all being meticulously organized by a house servant. The servant looked up, surprised. Gregory looked up, shocked. The servant glanced at the others, who hadn’t noticed him yet. Gregory put a finger to his lips. All he could hear was the approaching footsteps and the steady drip of a well-worn mop. The servant glanced at the group, then at Gregory, then at the group again.

He screamed.

“Shit,” Gregory muttered. One assassin turned around, and stuck a blade between the servant’s ribs without hesitation. Again, he tried to shout, this time through a lungful of blood. Gregory clamped his hand on the man’s mouth and pushed him into the closet, shutting the door behind.

The footsteps grew louder, and suddenly stopped as the guards shouted a warning, muted by the thick wooden door. There was a telltale flash of magic, and the fight began. Gregory kept his hand firmly on the servant’s mouth, if only to anchor himself. The man coughed violently, spewing blood through Gregory’s fingers. He tried not to think about the hot liquid running down his arm. He tried not to think about the cries of pain sounding more and more like his companions. Soon the guards would find him, and the blood running down his shirt would be his own. He closed his eyes, and tried to hold onto something, anything within reach—

The door opened. One of the assassins stood alone in a hallway cluttered with corpses. Gregory stared at the scene for a moment, then back at the servant.

He was dead. Gregory blinked once, then let him drop to the ground.

He left the closet and dislodged a sword from a guard’s bloody chest. His only companion watched him patiently, evidently waiting for instructions. He inspected the corpse’s armor more closely. It was not too terribly stained, after all.

Robert Blartrap was seated at what had been a very lovely breakfast. The silverware was designed by Martrin, down in the city; it had his telltale loops in the engravings. Robert had seen a similar set before, in the dining hall of the council chambers.

He glared at his reflection in the spoon, silently admonished himself. It seemed Mr. Jeswick did not share the Blartrap sense of humor. This wasn’t so surprising, in retrospect. Robert typically avoided the sort of jokes his father enjoyed, but when he was anxious, they seemed to slip through.

Jeswick eyed him with a cold regard, made colder by the featureless birch paneling that surrounded them.

“Well – of course,” Robert stammered, “I did not – I would never mean to suggest that your father deserved to die.”

“Of course.” Jeswick’s reply was low, grating.

“Perhaps we should return to business.”

“That would be wise.”

Robert cleared his throat, wiped the sweat from his brow. What was he to do? Jeswick would never purchase the estate now. Yet, he had to press on, or face even more humiliation by fleeing the breakfast with his tail between his legs.

Before he could speak, though, a guard mercifully interrupted their meal and whispered something rather urgent in Jeswick’s ear. They had an intense exchange, more than once glancing at Robert. For a moment, he was afraid they were plotting his murder.

Jeswick stood. As if the failed joke was forgotten, he waved for Robert to follow and swept out of the room. Robert scurried to follow.

He trailed the master and his guard through the maze of beautifully decorated halls. Scenes of fierce battles and nude women flashed past his vision, far to quickly to truly enjoy their elegance.

Eventually, they came to a thick steel door. Two guards stood outside. One of them stood with an air that looked eerily familiar.

Gregory tried to ignore the stench of death that permeated his stolen armor. He stood erect to the left of the thickly lined vault at the center of the Jeswick estate. Jeswick was always of the paranoid sort, and it was no miracle that this panic room had remained exactly as it was.

Footsteps rounded the far corner. Three figures hustled into view. The guard in front, then Jeswick, and finally a third, whose face was hidden by the first two. Gregory shifted beneath the heavy armor. He slowed his breathing. Adjusted his grip on the sword. The trio came closer, and Gregory could finally make out who the third victim would be—

Oh, dear. He tried to signal the assassin beside him, but the killer took no notice. The three men were only ten paces away now, and it was far too late to retreat. He felt obligated to hope that his brother would get away.

The guard stepped past them, into the steel-lined chamber. Jeswick was on his heels, but Gregory stayed him with a hand. The older fellow glared at him, incredulous. The guard in the room turned, started to voice a question.

Then, everything happened at once.

The assassin turned about and threw a knife at the guard behind them. Gregory shoved Jeswick against the opposite wall and ran his sword through the man’s gut. Jeswick gave only a wet grunt as he slid down the gaudy wood. Gregory slid his bloody sword from the dying man. He slashed open his throat, sending a wave of red spurting across his armor. He heard a gargled shout from behind him, then nothing

He turned to find Robert standing stock-still, blood covering his clothes. There was a shuffling from within the vault. Gregory removed his helm.

“Run,” he said softly. Robert obeyed. The man turned and started sprinting down the corridor. The assassin appeared in the doorway. Gregory simply watched as his arm flung out, and another knife flew down the hall and buried itself in Robert’s spine. He fell, and started dragging himself with only his arms.

The assassin stalked down the hall. Gregory reflected that he should probably feel something as the man plucked the blade from his brother’s back and plunged it between his ribs, deep into his heart.

After that, there was only silence.

Gregory walked the empty halls of the Blartrap residence. His brother’s absence was felt more than he’d expected, but that could always be relieved by hiring a servant. He came to the entrance hall. The doors had been thrown wide, and dozens of people he’d known his whole life had gathered to pay respects for dear, poor Robert.

They shook his hand and kissed his cheeks and donated tears when he hadn’t any. They gave him food and drink and sympathy. And none were the wiser of what he’d done.

He had to admit, he could get used to this whole “killing” thing.