Haferon Isengrund opened a rosewood box, “Bugger.” He spoke with the sorrow of the recently bereaved, and for Haferon, his situation was of similar harrowing circumstance.

I am out of snuff.

His broad desk was submerged in wax tablets, papers, several haphazard abacuses, and a brown teapot, balancing, at great personal risk, on top of seven ineptly stacked bound tomes, labelled: accounts - miscellaneous.

His office, a small, dull room built into eastern tower of Fæsten Castle, the home of Marchioness Audovera Quillinane, had one redeeming feature: an excellent view. However, the first time he’d opened the lone shutter to enjoy the view had been a disaster. The window had no glass or waxed canvas to block the howling mountain winds; they had whipped his office into a paper blizzard, screaming in delight.

Whether it was ore yields, pay, flour purchase orders, or stray bribery notes, if it appeared on his desk Haferon was expected to deal with it.

His current headache, the empty snuff box and cold tea notwithstanding, was a result of accounts - miscellaneous, otherwise known as the Grey Books, and were used to help Lady Quillinane manage her expenditure for political indiscretions. They sounded much more interesting than they really were.

Haferon picked at the tiny bobbles covering his grey, thick knitted tunic and glared at accounts: miscellaneous.

It’s not the complexity that irks me, but the false nature of the words within. ‘Flower expenditure’ per annum under ‘guest entertainment’, is as pointless as beating around the bush and certainly not what the guests are doing with said flowers. ‘Gifts’ is just as bad.

It was both a blessing and a curse when Haferon’s oil lamp ran low and he had an excuse to shuffle down the winding stairs and indulge in a little fresh air. Absorbed in navigating the narrow steps and the tapping of his feet, Haferon nearly tottered into a spurious looking individual with a ghastly, red silk eye patch.

Haferon jumped back and attempted to flatten his short grey hair back into place.

One side of the individual’s face was mangled, the skin pink and taut; the other was smooth and unblemished. His hair was short and blond. There were two white lines running right across his skull where some hair was missing. His clothes were soft and rich, and he was a little chubby.

Must be a visiting noble.

“Show me to Lady Quillinane’s quarters.”

Haferon rubbed his wrinkled nose, “This way, milord.”

What a pain the arse.

He didn’t know who the young man was but, even with his foreign accent, Haferon recognised that special, cultivated tone he was expected to obey without question.

“How much farther?”

The castle’s third most ugly tapestry was up ahead, “Two-hundred and eighteen yards, milord. We should be there in approximately five minutes.”

“How many bloody miles of corridors are there?”

Including the interconnected working mines and caverns the castle was built on? Nineteen point seven miles as of last week. Such information will likely go unappreciated though. Best to keep my mouth shut.

The young noble stomped onwards. For Haferon, who spent his days with only eagle cries and scratchy parchment to disturb him, the sound was grating.

Two guards, wearing steel breastplates, greaves, and bracers over wool gambesons, stood either side of a studded oak door four foot wide and seven foot high. They were armed with six foot spears, large round shields, and short swords. An eagle, perched on the slanted handle of a pick driven into rock, was painted onto their shields over a white background. Close fitting steel helms enveloped their heads.

“No visitors,” said the left-hand guard. He was short and had a small blotch of red, right beneath his left eye.

That’s what Graff always says. No point getting in a tizzy.

The young noble did not take this well.

Haferon had to try to keep himself from smirking, “I am sure you can make an exception.”

“Everyone thinks they are entitled to exceptions,” said the right-hand guard. “Do you have any idea how much anxiety that causes us?” He was tall and lanky. His long, sludge brown hair was tied back in a ponytail with a pristine white band.

Haferon shrugged, that’s your problem Coombs, not mine.

“I am Cerddin Mánfeld,” said the young noble.

“Good for you,” said Graff.

“Coombs, Graf, let the young lord pass.” A strong feminine voice passed through the doorway, “If that’s you Isengrund, you’d better come in too.”

Graff patted Haferon’s back with his leather covered hand. Haferon scowled.

“You have a good day now, Mr Isengrund,” said Graff, as Coombs opened the heavy door. Cerddin stormed through and Haferon followed. He stayed near the door as the disfigured noble presented himself with an excessive flourish.

“Cerddin, a pleasure to see you,” said Lady Quillinane. She was lounging in a soft chair near the fire. She wore a deep blue, lambswool bliaut with so much missing material, Haferon saw flashes of her cream silk undertunic every time she gestured with her silver goblet. Lady Quillinane twirled her wrists and fingers as she spoke, flashing a march's worth of jewelry.

“My, how you’ve grown!” said Lady Quillinane. “I missed you at the Ball. What kept you?”

“Thank you for seeing me, most honourable Marchioness. I apologise for missing you at the Ball. Unfortunately, I was tasked with supervising the estate in my father’s absence.”

It was impossible to miss the bitterness in Cerddin’s voice.

Is he going for sympathy or is Cerddin merely an abysmal negotiator? The question occupied Haferon’s mind for as long as he was curious: precisely three seconds.

“How tragic for a young man like yourself to be cooped up like that. I saw your father, he made quite the scene with a young Lady.”

“That’s why I am here, Marchioness. I wish to apologise on his behalf for any inconvenience he may have caused.”

“How thoughtful of him to send you all the way out here, just for that.”

“My father is a considerate man.”

“I don’t doubt. Isengrund, you make a terrible servant. Stop cowering, my guest still doesn’t have a glass of wine.”

At the mention of his name, Haferon snapped out of his disinterested stupor and rushed to one of four side tables.

I hope one of these is the right one.

He was lucky, there was a full decanter of wine behind a vase, but his fortune was short lived: there were no goblets. He glanced around.

“The second cabinet to your right, Isengrund.”

Haferon bobbed his head, trotted to the other side of the room, and obtained the necessary goblet.

“Don’t make such a fuss.” Lady Quillinane turned back to her guest, “Now Cerddin, why are you here?”

“My father is hoping you will agree to support his claim.”

“His adventuring must be going well if he is so close to meeting the King’s prerequisites, despite his disqualification.”

Haferon presented Cerddin with a goblet of wine. The boy’s hand shook as he took it from Haferon’s inky fingers.

“You forgot the tray, Isengrund. Never mind. Help yourself to a drink and stand next to me. There should be a wax tablet somewhere, you’ll need that too.”

It’s an empty favour. I can’t drink and write. I know which one I am expected to choose. What is lady Quillinane up to? Am I supposed to write the minutes?

“He’s conducting a popularity campaign of his own,” said Cerddin.

“What of my own claim? I have three sons carousing the countryside. I doubt they’ll stop without a significant incentive.”

“Will they not listen to their mother?”

“They’ve always been good boys. I’m sure I can dissuade them from fame and glory if needed.”

“It would be good for their health.”

Is the young lord threatening her? That’s a poor move. Everyone knows lady Quillinane is incredibly protective of anything and everything she deems hers. Haferon scratched a single mark on the board. I should at least pretend to do something.

“You’re right, they drink far too much and I’d be most disappointed if they caught something on their travels,” said Lady Quillinane. “I am sure you’ve been on a fabulous adventure or two yourself. Could you visit them on the way home and give them a few tips? It’s impossible to miss the maturity etched upon your face. What do you think, Isengrund?”

What does she want me to say, should I try and diffuse the situation, or should I follow my employer’s lead? Ah, another non-choice.

“I think it is rude to keep a person waiting with idle talk, milady,” said Haferon. “Time is more valuable to some than others.”

“My! What a gentleman. Please convey your father’s request Cerddin, it appears Mr Isengrund is very busy today.”

Haferon gulped. So much for loyalty, lady Quillinan just made me the scapegoat for the entire conversation.

The young lord snapped his gaze towards Haferon. It wasn’t pleasant.

Haferon let out a small sigh, I really should know better by now.

“My father would like you to support his claim.”

“You’ve already said that Cerddin. What I’m not hearing is why.”

“To prevent the outbreak of mutations from spreading to your domain.”

“I’ve been informed we are too far from the Cwylla for it to pose a problem.”

“You would not be the first person to assume that, my lady,” said Cerddin.

Ooooh, another threat. Haferon made a second mark.

“Have you seen my menagerie, Cerddin? It has all manner of fantastical beasts. I think of it as part of my duty to maintain the flora and fauna of my domain. Once they are big enough, I let them go. They act as the most wonderful deterrent to smugglers and raiders. In a bad winter though, they come down the mountains in search of food. They’re quite dangerous if you don’t have something to offer them. Isengrund, what is today’s date?”

“Mónandæg, first week of Blótmónaþ, milady.”

“How are the losses among the herds?”

“High, milady. Most from the cold, but three were lost to a Draca up in Sincealdu. I believe it was one of your favourites, the one with a white scales.”

“Ablignys? She’s still alive? Why, that is good news! Tell me sooner next time, Isengrund. I remember her when she was born. Such a sweet little creature, horrible temper though.”

“I will endeavour to do so should such news cross my desk, milady.”

“Passivity does not suit you, Isengrund. If I want it, you should seek it.”

“Yes, milady.”

“That reminds me. The cabinet with the mirror on it. There’s a small blue clay pot with the Burnehálig crest on it. Fetch it for me.”

Haferon bowed, placed the wax tablet on the small table by the Marchioness’s seat, and left Lady Quillinane’s side as fast as he could. He pulled his snuff box from his pocket and caressed the lid with his thumb. He popped it open. It was still empty.

Wait! There is still the smallest pinch in the far corner. He reached for it.

“Is that rose infused snuff I can smell, Isengrund” Haferon froze at the sound of Lady Quillinane’s voice. She was standing right behind him.

Was I really staring at it so long? No, that's impossible. It’s only been a few seconds.

The Marchioness pressed herself against his back, wrapped her arms around him, and peeked over his shoulder, “I wondered what was keeping you.”

“Wo- would you like some, milady?”

“Your last pinch, so thoughtful of you.” She took the box from his hand, “The pot, please.”

Haferon wanted to run, but he couldn’t, so he made do with a swift stumble to the cabinet, the moment her grip lessened. His face fell at the sight of Lady Quillinane extracting the last of his snuff and holding it to her nose. He returned just in time to hear her inhale it with a delicate sniff.

“My, this is excellent. I must pay you far too well. It is a shame there’s none left for our guest.”

Haferon handed the pot to Lady Quillinane, “You forgot the mirror.”

“Yes, milady. I do apologise.”

“Less words, more action, Haferon.”

Why use my first name now? What is she trying to imply? Best not to think about it too much.

“Is that fish, most honourable Marchioness?”

“Don’t be daft, Cerddin. That’s the Burnehálig crest. Why would I keep potted fish in my room? Ah, thank you, Haferon. This pot, young man, is filled with a most remarkable oil. As I understand it, the Burnehálig extract the natural oils from several different plants growing in their fens and water gardens. Your hand please, Haferon.”

Haferon placed his hand on Lady Quillinane’s upturned palm. I’m surprised she didn’t just yell ‘paw’!

Lady Quillinane rubbed a single drop of oil into the back of Haferon’s hand.

That’s not using me as a test subject, that’s caressing my hand! Oil does not take that long to rub in. I’m getting set up again, but I can’t force her to let go without making a fuss.

“There, that wasn’t too bad now, was it?”

Not sure about that, my hand is itching.

“Stop fidgeting, Haferon. Cerddin, please, come over here.”

Curiosity was a marvellous tool. The young lord was unable to resist. Trying to ignore the feeling in his hand, Haferon looked straight ahead, but Cerddin had no such reservations. He peered at Haferon’s hand and ran his fingertip across the patch of skin the Marchioness had applied oil to.

Haferon squirmed.

“No need to scowl so. You may look at your hand, Haferon.”

The centre strip of skin on the back of his hand was unmarked and smooth. The thick black hair had gone, along with the sealing wax burns and slight wrinkles.

“Lord Bourdekin sent this to me as a birthday present. The effect fades over several months if you don’t reapply it. Apparently there’s a drink that promotes good health too.”

“It’s most remarkable,” said Cerddin.

“I’m glad you think so,” said Lady Quillinane. “Unfortunately, this is the only pot I have, but I imagine it would do wonders for your scars, Cerddin.”

“Where can I get some?”

“You can’t. Only Lord Bourdekin has the means to acquire it, but he won’t sell it on and the Burnehálig have, so far, refused to give it to anyone else. Obviously, this will not do. There is profit to be made and Bourdekin is squandering the opportunity in the name of personal vanity. I do not intend to miss this chance to prove his incompetence. I am sure this oil and other similar items will be popular. I will never support your father’s bid, Cerddin, but it is a long way between Earn Tor and Tégemýðe. There is no guarantee I would be able to assist the King in time should Dolwillen’s bid gain sufficient traction.”

“You want me to promise exclusivity for this extract? How do I get another country to agree to that?”

“I don’t particularly care. My second request is for a non-interference agreement. Should your father be successful, he will not only leave my march untouched, but subsidise the cost of transporting food here for the duration of his…stewardship.”

“But that will cost a fortune!”

“I know, I currently pay for it to keep starvation to a minimum. How badly does your father want to be King? Don’t you want to be King after him too?”

Haferon could see the young man wavering. I should say something to push him over the edge.

“Would it help if milord had a chance to try the extract?”

Lady Quillinane clapped her hands together, “What a wonderful idea, Haferon. Come now, Cerddin. You’re not going to make a Lady stand, are you?”

“You expect me to kneel?”

“Of course.”

“I never kneel.”

“It is not as hard as it seems. Haferon. Kneel.”

Haferon knelt. Lady Quillinane, caressed his coarse, stubble strewn jaw line with a single finger, “See, Haferon can do it and he is much, much older than you.”

One ‘much’ would have been sufficient.

Cerddin’s eyes flicked between Haferon’s hand, the bottle, and Lady Quillinane.

“Would milord like a cushion,” said Haferon.

Cerddin sneered. It was so much worse with his disfigurement. All his emotions were concentrated on one side of his face, while the other half twisted them into a belligerent mockery of the original expression.

“I am not so soft.” Cerddin knelt, “Get out of my way.”

Haferon scrambled sideways to avoid him.

Lady Quillinane gave Haferon a ravishing smile, “Return to my side.”

“Yes, milady.”

Lady Quillinane leaned forward and removed Cerddin’s eye patch, forcing Cerddin to look to one side, his face flushing.

“What a heroic wound,” said Lady Quillinane. “Did you slay the beast?”

“It ran away.”

She patted his arm, “Of course it did. Face me, chin up. Good boy, now, hold still.”

The Marchioness applied the exotic extract to Cerddin’s face, never placing more than a single drop on her finger at a time. She spent seventeen minutes rubbing and compressing his skin with the tips of her fingers, providing Cerddin with little opportunity to look anywhere but her half-open bliaut. Finally, she looked up.

“Close your mouth, Haferon. I can’t have my favourite scribe choking to death on a fly.”

Haferon closed his mouth. There was a weird, dry, yet sticky taste in his mouth.

The change on Cerddin’s face was remarkable. Not only were the scars fading, but the riven flesh beneath was filling in, as little squiggles wriggled beneath his skin, smoothing out his appearance. Even his hair was returning as the scars on his head disappeared. The puckered void of his eye socket still haunted his face, but it didn’t look as painful as before.

“There, all you need now is a glass eye and no one will be able to tell the difference. Such a handsome boy. Haferon, pass me the mirror. How do you like your new face, Cerddin?”

Cerddin slid his eye patch back on, “I don’t mind the eye patch, but it is good to have my face back. Thank you, most honourable Marchioness.”

“Audovera is sufficient, Cerddin.”

“Thank you, Audovera.” It was the first genuine words Cerddin had said.

I need to return to work. What a miserable way to spend my break.

Cerddin’s eyes flicked towards the wax tablet, “Scribe, what are those marks?”

“Which marks, milord?”

“The ones on the writing tablet.”

Lady Quillinane picked up the beech and beeswax tablet, “So kind of you too keep track, Haferon.”

“Milady?”

“Come now, don’t be shy. I saw you make these marks every time the young lord threatened me. I didn’t know you were so protective, Haferon.”

She’s almost right. I was marking Cerddin’s mistakes, noting them down for my own satisfaction because it makes me feel better, but admitting that would be even worse than agreeing with lady Quillinane.

“Yes, milady,” said Haferon.

“You were judging me?” Cerddin’s voice had gone very quiet.

“You’re such a sweetie, Haferon,” said Lady Quillinane, “but that was quite unnecessary. I am more than capable of looking after myself.”

“A servant has found me wanting?” said Cerddin, a little louder.

“Yes, milady,” said Haferon.

“Don’t ignore me!” said Cerddin.

“You can take one of them off for kneeling, Haferon. I’m feeling kind today.” She handed the tablet back to him.

Haferon pulled the metal stylus from its slot and used the tiny, spoon like end to smooth over one of the marks. He wondered if he’d have time to recover his snuff box before he had to run from the room.

“Both of you were judging me?” This one was almost a shout.

“Cerddin, my dear; every agreement must be weighed not only on its merit, but how it is presented. I even fixed your face to give you a helping hand, but now I’m done, I’m not so sure. Compared to Haferon here, you don’t stand a chance.”

Cerddin stood. He quivered.

“Coombs, Graff.”

The two guards trotted into the room.

“Escort lord Cerddin to his suite. I think he needs a little bit more practice before he can satisfy me. Don’t worry about my safety. I am sure Haferon can take care of any intruders in your absence.”

The miniscule snorts of suppressed sniggers evolved into two sharp salutes, “Right away, milady,” said Graff.

“Come along, milord,” said Coombs. “The lady is famous for her hospitality, it would be rude to refuse her generosity.”

“So even the skull bashers dare to make suggestions. I can see coming here was a waste of time.”

“Oh? I thought we had an agreement,” said Lady Quillinane. “I only have your best interests at heart. I don’t want to work you too hard, Cerddin. You’re so young. We can hammer out the details together later. Alone.”

Cerddin went bright red.

“Off you go, sweetie.”

He chuckled, the boy is too obvious.

Ugly fury contorted Cerddin’s face for half a second before his expression went blank. He walked out without a word.

“Better watch your back, Mr Isengrund,” said Graff, a gleeful expression plastered across his face. “Those silent types can be dangerous.”

“We will be back as soon as we can, milady,” said Coombs. They saluted again and trotted after Cerddin.

“That was rude, Isengrund. You shouldn’t laugh at guests.”

Ah, back to my surname again.

“I am sorry, milady.”

“Never mind. I do not think he will be troubling us for much longer.”

Haferon sidled towards his snuff box. His hands trembled.

“You may go.”

“Yes, milady.” Haferon snatched his box and fled.