Blood For Wages

7: For the Clay or the Crabs

Viscount Redmond Marr, heir to the High Seat of Fallaros, sat by the bedside of Countess Vanora Marr and listened to her private battle to draw breath. In... and out, in... and... out. There was no regularity. With each inhalation the battle began anew. So it had been, day after excruciating day.

Dragging the fuck on, while he waited for his mother to die.

He shouldn't have been surprised––and he wasn't. His mother had always been strong. Had always dictated the course of her life, and the course of the Frekifold tribeland, with assiduous care and an unwavering, purposeful hand. It had been a rare day when she allowed herself to be gainsaid and, if she ever did, it always turned out later that it had been part of a more subtle ploy on her part.

While he waited for her to die, Redmond Marr held his mother's hand. It was still warm. Still suffused with life. Everyone had to walk into the cold, inescapable embrace of the pit in the end. Trust Countess Vanora to cling to the lip for as long as humanly possible.

"You were always one for hunting for the edge of things, for pushing and motivating your family and your people as close to them as you could," Marr whispered into his mother's ear, smoothing a strand of red hair back from her face. "But that is the thing about edges, Mother; the only people who really know anything about them are those people who go over them. So, fucking die, please. You'll like it. I promise."

He gave the Countess' hand a squeeze. Leaned back. Let out a little impatient sigh, which would have been mistaken for sorrow by the dozen silent knights of her Corrival Guard that were stationed around the walls of the grand bedchamber.

The Corrival Guard, thought Marr, as he gazed blandly around at the stern, ever-attentive eyes that peeped through the visors of the helmets the guards wore, what a fucking inconvenience. Obligated to make sure that their charge only succumbs to the ravages of nature. If it wasn't for those overzealous stick-in-the-muds I could have thrown Mother off a tower last week and gotten on with things. And there is so much to do.

Still, a dozen knights whose sole purpose of existence was to guard the body of the individual who held the High Seat of Fallaros, who answered to no law, were known to be completely beyond reproach, and took orders only from the Count or Countess holding the High Seat were a powerful tool. Damn intimidating for one, dressed in full plate under their long, spotless, deep blue coats, with two rifles crossed at their backs, a sword on one hip and a pistol on the other.

Marr patted at his short red hair and ran a finger over his immaculately shaven jaw. Yes, he thought he looked the part of Holder of the High Seat certainly, he just needed his mother to—

There was a rap on the door. The Corrival Guard did not move a muscle. There was no getting ready with them. They were loaded and cocked at all times.

"My Lord," the steward called through the door, "Captain Gray requests an audience with you."

"Show him in," Marr said crisply.

The door to the opulently furnished room opened and then closed. Marr always liked to try and see if he could hear Gray approach on these occasions. He seldom could. The man moved like a fox, although in this particular room a shod horse could have walked silently over the expensive throws and rugs that covered the floor almost from wall to wall.

"My Lord," Gray said quietly when he had stopped at Marr's side.

"Captain Gray," Marr said, not taking his eyes off his mothers sleeping face, "have you brought me Gunn? I wish to make an exhibition of him as soon as possible."

He saw Gray's shadow spread across the bed as the silver-haired captain leaned in closer. Felt the soft tickle of the man's minty breath in his ear, sending little shivers of private pleasure down his spine.