Michael Manning - Mageborn - The Blacksmith’s Son

I headed back the other way and spotted Ariadne. Sure enough she was deep in conversation with Devon. I took a moment to remember the proper address, by which I mean I consulted the note card Ariadne had made for me earlier. Lord Devon it read. Although he wasn’t the Duke of Tremont yet he had been granted a baronet already. Since ‘Tremont’ could be used to refer to the Duke of Tremont, his father, the usual way to call him was by his given name rather than his surname, hence, Lord Devon.

“Ariadne,” I called to her. She looked at me gratefully. I faced Devon, “Please pardon my intrusion Lord Devon, her grace asked me to see if she could be found, to assist with some arrangements.”

“Certainly,” he replied with a genial smile. Despite his friendly attitude the aura around him still made me uncomfortable. Hopefully the books we had found would help me to better understand these things. “I didn’t catch your name when we arrived…” he let the statement trail off, making it an obvious question.

“Ah my fault, I should have introduced myself directly to you, Mordecai Eldridge your lordship.” That pretty well exhausted the topics I was prepared to discuss with the future Duke of Tremont.

“Mordecai, what an unusual name, are you originally from Lothion? The name sounds foreign.” Wonderful, I didn’t even know the answer to that question, my father had found the name embroidered on the blanket I was wrapped in.

“Honestly I’m not even sure where the name comes from either, my mother had a love of foreign romances so she might have picked it up from one of her books. I was raised near Lancaster though, so I consider myself a true son of Lothion in any case.” Practice was honing my skills in the art of dissembling. Lady Rose’s advice came to mind so I attempted to retake the initiative, “My life must seem very boring to a man such as yourself, tell me about your family. Do you have any siblings?”

Devon’s eyes narrowed for a moment, “A brother, Eric, but he was lost in an unfortunate accident a year ago.” I have a knack for uncomfortable topics.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to remind you of such a delicate subject,” I replied.

“No harm done, he and I never got along, and there was nothing delicate about his death either. Passed out drunk in a bath and drowned.” Devon spoke casually, but I could feel him watching my reactions carefully.

“Was there any suspicion of foul play?” I asked.

Devon’s face never moved, but I saw the purplish aura around him flash for a moment, “No, there was no cause for concern in that regard. Eric was well loved by all, and the girl who found him attested to the fact he had been drinking heavily before entering the bath, a few of the other women in the ‘establishment’ confirmed her story.”

“Establishment?” I was confused.

“He died in a brothel.” Lord Devon answered. “Now if you’ll excuse me I need to refill my glass.”

“I would be happy to get that for you,” I said, glad to have something else to do. He proffered his glass and I started looking for the fellow with the bottle. When I returned I found him standing with Marc.

“We were just discussing you Mordecai!” My friend said this enthusiastically but his eyes were full of warning.

“Yes, Marcus was telling me that you’re a student of mathematics and philosophy.” Devon added.

“I try, but I fear I will always be an humble scholar, rather than one of the pathfinders of reason.” I replied.

“You sound as though you might be well suited as a poet. Tell me what you think of Ramanujan and his work with the Riemann Zeta Function, I get so little interesting conversation at home.” The aura around him had gotten darker again, which made his smile ominous.

“I think no one took him seriously at first, but that was his own fault.” I said.

“How so?”

“He presented his ideas in a such a way as to deliberately elicit a contrary reaction from others. If he had been open about his methods, the fact he was using the Zeta function to arrive at his conclusions from the beginning there would have been a lot less controversy.” I could almost feel Devon’s disappointment. There was a very good reason we had chosen mathematics as my scholarly cover. It had become something of a hobby of mine as a result of my time studying with Marc. My parents thought it was useless abstraction of course, as did Marc, but I had found great enjoyment in the subject. Consequently I had spent a lot of time absorbing material from the Duke’s library that most folk would never have even heard of.

“The controversy is perhaps the only reason anyone still remembers his contributions, perhaps it was necessary to preserve his work,” Devon countered.

“I’m sure he is not the first person to hide his methods,” I was starting to get annoyed so I probably emphasized that phrase too much. “He doubtless won’t be the last, but his motive was not controversy.”

“Do explain,” his teeth flashed as he spoke and I found myself reminded of a fox.

“He kept his methods secret to embarrass his contemporaries. If they admitted they could not follow his work it made them look ignorant, if they argued he was wrong he revealed his methodology to make them look like fools. In essence he was an egotistical ass.” Perhaps I was a bit too passionate about my subject, I might have insulted Devon, but I hadn’t intended to, at least not consciously. The purplish light around him was pulsing now.

“Pardon me your lordship, no offense was intended.” I added.

“None taken,” he replied, although it was clear he felt otherwise, “you are passionate about your subject, a commendable quality in a scholar. If you’ll excuse me I should mingle some more with the other guests.” I was relieved to watch him go.

Marc stepped closer to me and took me by the elbow, “Let's retire for a moment, I need to get some air.” He steered me to the balcony which was currently empty. Once there he spoke softly, between clenched teeth, “What the hell was that?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I replied sipping my wine casually.

“Could you have chosen anyone in the world to make your enemy, that man is probably the worst you could have picked.” Marc seemed genuinely worried. “What did you say to get his attention so firmly fixed on you?” He was referring to my short conversation before Marc had joined us.

“Well I did stumble into an embarrassing topic quite by accident, I asked him about his siblings.” I quickly related the story of Devon’s brother and how he had died. “He didn’t seem particularly upset about it though.” I concluded.

“Of all the things you could have asked that was the worst. His elder brother’s death has been the subject of many rumors. Quite a few suspect Devon of having a hand in it.”

I could see the problem but not my own relevance, “Surely he must know I wasn’t intentionally trying to upset him.”

Marc sighed, running his hands through his thick hair, “He knows nothing of the sort. You have to understand how people like him work. Let me give you a lesson in the aristocracy. First, he assumes that because he’s so important, everyone else must be nearly as knowledgeable about his affairs as he is. Second, if he did have something to do with his brother’s death he would have to be incredibly paranoid about it. Third, a complete stranger approaches him and starts questioning him about his brother’s ‘unfortunate’ demise. He will naturally assume that you are either trying to send him a message or embarrass him. In either case he will take it as a challenge.”

“Oh,” I answered adroitly. “Well thankfully I live here rather than in Tremont.”

“Idiot, like that matters to someone like him,” my friend was angry now.