Chapter Eight: A Pig in a Wig

Month of Harvest, Valtroy, Kgnaska

The late Summer winds blew over the once great city of Valtroy, bringing with them the first breaths of Fall. The city sat atop the cliffs in a defeated heap, no songs to be sung, no laughter to warm its cold, broken stone. It laid mostly in ruins, even after all this time, the north wall that had fallen all those years ago, still a gaping hole in the perimeter of the city. The people went about their lives in service of the empire that they were now a part off, not daring to raise their heads in hope. Their king was dead, their queen was in chains or worse, they had no heir, no one to rally behind. The Melcanians glutted themselves upon the land, making themselves fat off of the harsh taxes set upon the people, sitting in golden palaces with guarded doors, laughing at the oppressed.

Governor Gravis Bakker awoke to the sounds of gulls, their songs dragging him out of a most pleasant sleep. He tightened his eyes, denying the sunlight, not wanting to get up yet, Gods, the bed was so comfortable, so soft… He had almost fallen back asleep, when there came a knock on his chamber doors.

“Governor? Sir? I know you said not to wake you, but the day is carrying on into the twelfth hour.” Bakker groaned in frustration, opening his eyes. He felt immediately at ease again when he saw the room he was in, and remembered that it was his. The golden fixtures, the muralled walls, the wonderful, four poster bed stuffed with feathers. For he was not a mere Lord anymore, but a Governor of the great empire. Kgnaska was his, to rule under the will of the Emperor... He might as well be a king.

The large, obsessively obese man rolled over, the entire bed shifting from the movement of his weight, and sat up, placing his stubby feet on the cool stone floor. He turned his gaze to the doors, more gold than wood, taking on the haughty tone that came with his position.

“I’m ready to get up, you may send the servants in.” A moment passed and then the doors were thrust open by a collection of young, and exceedingly beautiful, Kgnaskan girls, tanned skin smooth and without blemish, long chocolate hair soft as fresh silk, their lovely and over voluminous breasts held tight in simple servant attire. Bakker eyed the women lecherously as they worked to get his fat ass dressed and presentable, no easy task, as it took four of them just to get his pants on. If one thing was for certain, Bakker’s promotion had made him anything but thinner, in fact, he had surely grown an extra two or three chins since his arrival in the territory, and every entryway in the castle had had to be remodeled to accommodate his girth.

After an hour of tugging, pulling, tucking, brushing, plucking, and puffing, the girls finally had Bakker dressed and made up for the day, the end result resembling a pig in a wig that had been squeezed into a suit. The fat, grotesque thing looked at itself in the mirror, smiling proudly.

“Ah, yes, excellent job as always girls.” Bakker reached his flabby hand out and clasped one of the girls on the ass, holding it there. “Excellent job indeed.” The corners of his mouth were already wet from excess saliva, and his breath came heavy from exertion just from standing. The girl stood there, head down, knowing better than to show reproach, doing her best to not retreat from his touch.

Bakker laughed, dropping his hand, the girl shuddering in relief, but the man was too full of himself to notice. “I’m afraid I must get going, important governing matters to attend to.” Bakker waddled over to the door, one of the girls more than happy to open it for him if it meant being rid of him. He turned back to the beautiful servant women, undressing them with his sickly, puffy eyes. “Do be sure to tidy the room while I’m out, I want the floors clean enough to eat off of.” Bakker laughed again, and then bumbled off down the hall.

The women started wiping down the room, sweeping the floors, making the bed, getting everything ready for the governor’s return. The violated girl stood there, holding herself as she held back tears.

“I hope you choke.” Her voice was barely a whisper. The other girls nodded in agreement, not pausing from their tasks.

…

The room that had been converted into an office for the Governor was relatively small, yet still shamefully wasteful in gold, silver, and other fine and valuable decorations, the rich excess that was the Melcanians’ way. Bakker was at his elaborate desk of fine stained wood, elegantly carved with images he had never taken the time to observe, probably had something to do with nature or something. His sad, abused chair, once a work of art, now sunk low beneath his weight, its shape forever warped and ruined by the jiggling sack of fat that sat in it. Behind him the sun poured through the glass of the balcony doors, doors he had had sealed shortly after his arrival when he had gone outside and nearly passed out looking down over the edge. He could just picture himself falling, all the way down to those cobblestones… Needless to say he was not a fan of heights.

Bakker’s mind was on more important matters now, like what was taking his lunch so long to get here. He drummed his fingers impatiently, rumbling stomach pains giving him a headache. His advisor stood exasperated off to the side, the day already at a late start and not to mention the governor’s absolute refusal to discuss important matters before eating. The man sighed, shifting the papers in his hands.

“Governor Bakker, I mean no disrespect, but perhaps, while we wait, we could go over some business?” Bakker was about to berate him when the doors to the office burst open, two servants pushing in large rolling carts with silver platers piled on them. They wheeled them to the front of the desk and lifted the shining lids off of each one, revealing all manner of delicacies, snapper fish eggs with nectarine jelly, Kgnaskan oysters slathered in butter, desert berries from Lithia, and so much more. The servants lifted the platers off the carts and set them down on the desk in front of Bakker, covering nearly every inch of the surface with food.

Bakker completely forgot about what he was going to say, immediately digging his greasy paws into anything and everything, not bothering with silverware, there was no one there to impress anyway. The servants gave a respectful bow and then pushed the empty carts back out of the room. His advisor stood there watching him eat, doing his best not to grimace at the wanton lack of manners or etiquette. Observing as the food was scooped up and stuffed inside that gaping maw, vanishing down the fat man’s gullet faster than he could shovel it in. He looked at the papers in his hands, remembering suddenly what he had come in for.

“My governor, we really do need to discuss a few matters.” Bakker was halfway through a set of enormous lobster tails, seemingly ignoring him. He sighed, why did he even bother? “Sir, if we could, there’s only a few documents.” Bakker looked up with a mouth full of lobster, more than a little perturbed by the pestering interruptions.

“What is so important, I say, that it can’t wait until after lunch?” The advisor held up the papers, raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Fine, bring them here, Desmond. If I’d known there’d be work involved with this position I might not have taken it.” Although, the room is nice… and the food. He brushed aside some of the empty dishes, letting them fall to the floor, moving the unfinished plates to the corner of the desk. Bakker wiped his filthy hands on an embroidered napkin, tossing the stained thing onto the heap on the floor. Desmond set the papers down in front of him, allowing him a few moments to go over them. Bakker sighed heavily, looking over the documents with drained disinterest. The pestering little man stood next to him, reading over his shoulder.

“Ah, yes, as you see, Chief Advisor Corvus is wishing for an update on the city’s reconstruction.” He pointed with slender fingers to the text on the page. “He wants to know if the Imperial treasury needs to send more funds for the project.” Bakker grinned deviously.

“Inform the man that repairs to the city are going well, but that we need another 40,000 golden Imperios due to… unexpected shortcomings.” The greasy fat man laughed boisterously, as if any of that money was going to the city. Desmond grimaced, but moved to the next page, ignoring the Governor’s blatant deceptions.

“General Kliin is also requesting to house Imperial soldiers inside city limits, apparently they’ve brought more men down from the North than they have room for and Kliin is looking for more permanent living arrangements than that dusty base camp they set up.” Bakker looked at him as if wondering why he was being bothered with such things. “I’m sorry, Governor, but it does require your approval.” Bakker looked over the document, muttering the words as he read them.” He stopped; his brow furrowed as he came to one part that troubled him.

“All expenses paid by the Kgnaskan Territorial treasury, including housing, food, etc?” Bakker looked at Desmond, bewildered. “They’re expecting me to pay for their room and board? Do we even have the Imperios for that?” Desmond pulled out a small book from inside his cloak, flipping through it.

“Let’s see, General Kliin wants to house 1267 men in available houses… We have a positive balance of 6920 golden Imperios… No, we don’t currently have the funds.” Bakker nodded, thinking. He leaned back in his chair, the worn thing groaning loudly in protest.

“Hmmm, well, how much are we currently taxing?” Desmond flipped through the book again, skimming with his fingers.

“Eh, 27%, but estimates suggest we could push as high as 40.” Bakker laughed, his entire frame jiggling.

“It’s settled then, raise taxes to 35% and inform Kliin that we are more than happy to have men of the Imperial army stay as guests in our… lovely city.” He laughed again, and reached for the plates of unfinished food. He did not care if there was more business, he was done for now. He went to work on a roast piglet, tearing into the meat with vicious vigor. Desmond gathered up his papers and left the bloated lard man to his feeding frenzy.

…

Coin District, Averynce, Melcania

The day was unseasonably warm for the beginning of Autumn, the cold and ice that haunted the land most of the year kept at bay by the sun’s shining light, surely a gift from Solan. Everywhere in the city the people, both rich and poor, were taking advantage of the glorious weather. Lady Polisa sat in the quiet serenity of the gated gardens of her manor, tucked within the exclusive confines of the Coin District walls, sipping genteel tea imported from the East. She let the warmth and sun wash over her, listening to castle finches sing their songs within the stony crevices of the city they called home.

The flowers were still in bloom, due to the late heat, bringing a colorful beauty to her gardens, blues, reds, yellows, and white. The white flowers where her favorite, they reminded her of snow, of clouds, of all the innocent and tender things in this world. Polisa set her teacup down on the sun table and picked up the porcelain teapot, frowning as she realized it was empty. She set it back down and rang the golden little bell she had sitting next to it. A young man with handsome features and eyes that shined like topaz, stepped up to the table next to her, clad in customary servant attire.

“Yes, my Lady?” Polisa glanced up at the man, giving a curt smile.

“Ah, yes, Rorick, if you would be so kind as to bring me some fresh tea.” Rorick nodded, taking the tea set. “Oh, and do bring out my lunch, some sandwiches would be divine.” Rorick smiled, nodding again.

“Of course, my Lady, right away.” He went away, leaving her alone once more. Polisa leaned back in her cushioned garden chair, closing her eyes as she breathed in the scent of the flowers. Before she could even ponder his whereabouts, Rorick was back, carrying a tray of fresh tea and a plate of finger sandwiches, prompt, as always. He set the tray down and poured the tea, preparing it perfectly to her tastes, 2 sugars and a dash of cream, handing it to her with a respectful bow. Polisa took the cup delicately, as a lady should, sipping the impeccable beverage, they did not make tea like this in the West. She took another sip, savoring the blend, then set the cup down on the tray, plucking a finger sandwich from the plate and eating it in gentle, ladylike bites. Rorick stood to the side, at his lady’s beck and call. “Is everything to your liking, my Lady?” Polisa took another sip of tea, then dabbed her mouth with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“Yes, yes, quite. Thank you Rorick.” He smiled, dipping his head again. Polisa took a second sandwich, eating it slower than the first, her gaze looking thoughtfully up at the Tower Keep which dominated the heart of the Coin District. She often fantasized about its jeweled halls, about those palatial suites that only the highest of society were deemed worthy for. To see herself there, looking down upon the rest of the city, and the world itself in well deserved superiority. Yes, she had wealth, she had title, she had lands and manors, but to live there, in the one place money and influence could not buy, was a priceless dream of every lord and nobleman in the empire. But only those selected by the emperor were allowed, and he was not interested in bribes, much to Lady’s chagrin.

“My Lady, is everything alright?” Polisa looked down and noticed she had mistakenly spilled tea in her lap, her mind having been elsewhere. Rorick came with a napkin, handing it to her.

“Thank you Rorick, I dare say I would lose my head if it was any looser on my neck.” She wiped the tea off her dress, frowning at the brown blotches left behind in the fabric which would most certainly stain. And I rather liked this dress. Rorick stood quietly observing, standing at a respectful distance.

“Forgive me, but you were thinking about the tower again, weren’t you?” Polisa handed him back the napkin, which he folded and placed into his pocket. She looked back at the tower, not speaking for a time. She rested her chin on her hand, leaning against the garden table, musing.

“Yes, I was just picturing myself in one of those suites.” Polisa turned towards Rorick. “Have you ever known you were meant for something more than what society has given you?” Rorick looked about the gardens, thinking about the spacious manor, only one of many in the Lady’s possession. Polisa did not wait for an answer, too absorbed in herself. “Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve always had plenty, I’ve wanted for nothing.” She sat back up, taking time to observe her nails. “Everything I ever asked for was always given me.” Rorick nodded absently, half listening to his Lady’s latest monologue. Polisa toyed with the teacup on the table, spinning it back and forth in slow rotations with a gentle push of her finger. “And yet, despite that, I find myself denied this one small request. It’s absolutely criminal.” Rorick almost chortled, as if residence in the Tower was anything small.

“Perhaps your latest venture will prove fruitful?” Rorick prepared another cup of tea, handing it to Polisa. She took the cup in her hands, but did not drink it, her eyes distant.

“Yes, quite.” She looked up at Rorick, the lines in her face showing her years. They were alone in the garden, but Polisa knew there were more than finches hiding in the walls. “How have things been going with your… second job?” She did her best to sound casual, just a Lady chatting with her servant, which was strange enough as it is. Rorick looked around the garden before speaking.

“It’s going well, I’ve had an audience with someone very highstanding.” He smiled knowingly, Polisa frowned at him and he stopped. She sipped the tea, gazing thoughtfully into its depths.

“Good, good, I am happy to hear of your success.” A cold wind blew through the garden, bringing a touch of Winter’s chill. Polisa looked at the darkening skyline, watching frozen clouds make their way lazily towards the city, driving away the warmth that had graced the midday. “Looks as though things are starting to move along.” She mused. She stood up, leaving the growing cold in favor of the inviting warmth of her fireplace, and perhaps a good book. Rorick cleared the table and followed after her, carrying the tray into the kitchen. The Tower Keep stood firmly against the growing wind, a cold monolith of stone, a silent witness to everything.