"House Vael is but one of the many noble houses in the Kingdom of Ellandor," the chinless steward, Brennart, began, puffing out his chest as though he were reciting sacred scripture from memory. "Ellandor is ruled by King Alric the Third of House Caelvar from his capital in Vel Savaen. As I'm sure you are aware."
"Refresh my memories," Cairon said with polite curiosity. He knew every inch of the realm's politics better than this bloated rat ever would, but it suited him to play the ignorant foreign noble. Better to listen. Better to watch.
"Blackstone Keep, ruled by House Vael, is in the Northreach, the northernmost region of Ellandor, quite far from the center of power in Vel Savaen," the steward continued, sipping at the wine Cairon had provided. "Northreach is cold, rugged, with pine-covered hills and jagged crags. The soil is poor. The winters are worse. House Vael was once proud. Now, they are little more than ghosts wearing rusted crowns."
"I see," Cairon nodded, voice smooth.
Brennart leaned in and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Lord Vael is in debt. Desperate. He owes coin to several noble houses, some of them with sharper blades than patience. His lands are being taken, bit by bit, by his enemies. Namely, Lord Harl Avenlock of Redmere. A petty noble, but vicious. His hold is near the River Halden, just south of here."
Cairon allowed a hint of curiosity into his tone. "Why does this Lord Harl Avenlock hate the Vaels?"
"You see," Brennart said, his tongue now greased by both wine and his own smugness, "four years ago, Lord Vael's bastard son killed Lord Avenlock's heir in a duel. Here. In this keep, during the Wyrm's Feast."
Cairon raised an eyebrow behind his veil. "Lord Vael has a bastard?"
"Had," Brennart said with a careless wave. "Boy's name was Cairon. Peasantborn. Lord Vael sired him during some hunting trip. The boy grew up scrawny, dirty, and lazy. But somehow, he managed to kill the Avenlock heir, Corwin, in a duel. Lord Vael tried to smooth it over, but Lord Harl hasn't forgiven the insult."
"And what became of the boy?"
"Flogged and sent to the Blightlands," Brennart said with a little shrug. "The penal levy, you know. No one comes back from that place. I heard he died within the year."
"I see," Cairon said again, savoring the taste of the lie like wine on his tongue.
"Since then," Brennart went on, "Lord Avenlock has been attacking House Vael's lands. Not open war, mind you, just repeated border raids. Skirmishes. Enough to bleed us dry. For a declining house drowning in debt, these attacks are fatal. And now the old lord is dying. His heir, Rylen, is still a boy. If something doesn't change, the Vaels will be swept off the map before winter ends."
Wine made Brennart bold. His tongue loosened. His mask slipped.
Cairon asked, "The King. Alric the Third. Why doesn't he intervene? Would he not put a stop to one noble house devouring another?"
"As I said, the king and the royal court are far from here," Brennart replied. "Too far to care. Blackstone Keep means nothing to Vel Savaen. House Vael and House Avenlock are insects on the margins of the kingdom. Besides, the king is aging. Some say mad. Others say weak. His grip on the realm is failing. Many of the great lords act freely now, as if they rule their own kingdoms. The Blightlands spread unchecked. The penal levy was all but destroyed. Monsters now haunt the outer provinces. Northreach is only one of many fires burning in Ellandor."
Cairon offered a thoughtful nod, eyes half-lidded. "I am surprised House Vael is still standing."
"It is mostly thanks to Lady Isolde," Brennart said, straightening with pride as if her strength reflected on him. "Lord Edran is a withered husk. A man in name only. His cock doesn't even work. Lady Isolde controls the house, the servants, the ledgers. She keeps the creditors quiet. Keeps the soldiers fed. She rules now."
"A woman alone cannot reverse the tide," Cairon murmured, voice touched with amusement.
He pulled a single gold coin from a leather pouch and held it between his gloved fingers. It gleamed in the firelight like a sliver of sun. Brennart's eyes followed it, round and hungry.
"The Vaels are a dying house," Cairon said. "And dying houses fall. I imagine a clever man like you, Steward, will land on his feet when the banners change. So long as you pick the right side."
"Of course, my lord," Brennart said quickly, snatching the coin as if afraid it might vanish.
Cairon leaned back in his chair, wine untouched, smile hidden beneath black silk. The steward was his now. Bought with one coin and a whisper.
And this was only the beginning.