Robert Earl - Ancient blood

“Yes,” the chancellor said vaguely as he watched his master pace. It was always this way. The elector count always ended up arriving at the right decision, but, by Sigmar’s balls, he always took the longest route to get there. The click of Stirland’s boot heels echoed off the granite walls of the empty hall, and his face worked with thought. It worked hard. The chancellor waited.

“Anyway,” Stirland said, gesturing towards his chancellor, “I like the Strigany. Old Tilly is the best damn horse trainer I’ve ever had. I think that even Heinz might have some Strigany in him, the old villain. We were lucky to have a man in the cells to behead in his place. As it is, he’s got to stay in hiding until Averland leaves, even though he was well within his rights to clip him.”

“Within his rights, your lordship? To strike a nobleman?”

“Well, no, not exactly.” A moment of unaccustomed doubt flickered across the count’s face. Then it was gone, washed away by a happier memory.

“I remember my younger days, too. When I was a student in Altdorf… Well, let’s just say that Strigany girls leave nothing to be desired, nothing at all.”

The count leered happily at the memory, and the chancellor resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“I doubt if Averland will be persuaded by that argument, my lord,” he suggested, and Stirland barked with laughter.

“I doubt you’re wrong,” he scoffed, “weak-blooded bastard that he is. He even sent Gertrude away, you say?”

“Yes, my lord,” the chancellor said, nodding. Gertrude had been sent to ease Averland’s discomfort after the hunting expedition. “She said he looked quite terrified when she offered to… well, you know, comfort him.”

Stirland chuckled.

“Doesn’t like hunting, doesn’t like drinking, doesn’t like women. I don’t know what’s wrong with…”

The count stopped pacing, a sudden suspicion burning in his eyes. He looked around, and lowered his tone, before voicing his concern.

“You don’t think he’s a cultist, do you? A follower of one of the Dark Gods, Sigmar curse them?”

“No,” the chancellor reassured him, “even the witch hunters would hesitate to equate a lack of appetite with the worship of the Dark Gods. No, he’s just weak-blooded, or perhaps more than that. I recently received a letter from my old friend Professor Fritz Van Jungenblaumen from Marienburg. He has a theory that the raising of a babe can affect the way it behaves in later life.”

“That’s Averland stuffed then,” Stirland leered. “Remember his mother? Challenged the top courtesan in Altdorf to a competition, apparently. Won, too. Not that she wasn’t a damned fine-looking woman in her day. I saw a painting of her once. Had an arse like two pigs in a blanket. Lovely.”

“Jungenblaum’s theory would certainly hint at a connection between the character of the countess and the nervousness of her son in these matters.” The chancellor nodded.

Stirland grunted. “Makes some sort of sense, I suppose. Still, don’t see why he should have it in for the Strigany.”

“Jungenblaum theorises that, in order to survive, the fragile mind projects those parts of itself that it finds disturbing onto other individuals or groups. In this way, it sublimates unpleasant feelings, and protects its vestige of pride.”

“What’s that mean in Reikspiel?”

“Averland’s a lunatic.”

“I could have told you that,” Stirland said. Then he sighed. “But I understand what you’re saying. By playing along with Averland’s foibles, and helping him to persecute the Strigany, we’ll make him our ally.”

“Precisely. It’s always better to go with the grain of a man’s character. That’s why, if you remember my liege, I advised against taking him hunting.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Stirland said, waving the comment away. “Never mind that now. What we have to decide is, what should we suggest be done to the Strigany?”

The chancellor looked down at his immaculately polished fingernails. “There have been precedents, from history.”

“What precedents?”

The chancellor looked at Stirland.

Stirland looked back.

“No. Oh no, there’ll be none of that. Nothing worse than the unsporting spilling of blood, even Strigany blood, damn them.”

“In that case, perhaps you would care to read the proclamation I have prepared? It should provide Averland with what he desires, and us with the basis of our alliance.”

Stirland unfurled the scroll his chancellor handed him with a wry smile. The old rogue always seemed to know where their deliberations would end. Then, he read the proclamation, and the smile left his face.

“This is a bit strong,” he said.

“As strong as it needs to be,” the chancellor said, “without spilling blood, at least, not too much.”

“And you’re sure there’s nobody else we could better ally ourselves with?”

“My lord, I believe that we have already discussed that exhaustively.”

“Well, stuff it then,” Stirland said, frowning, “I’ll do it. Damned if I like it though.”

“Yes, my lord,” the chancellor said, and, with a bow, he left his master to his thoughts. In the same hall, a couple of hours later, the Elector Counts of Averland and Stirland met, neither of them realising exactly what they were about to set in train. It was late afternoon, and the sunlight streamed in through the high, narrow windows. The light warmed almost every flagstone of the hall, but when the counts met to embrace they found that they were standing in a patch of darkness.

Stirland ignored the feeling that this was an omen. Instead, he gestured his guest towards a table, and the platter that awaited them.

“Take a seat, Lord Averland,” he said, “and have a glass of wine with me.”

“Thank you,” Averland said, “although I’d prefer a glass of boiled water.”

He still sounded as if he had the flu, Stirland noticed. The hunt master’s fist had crushed his nose nicely. Congratulating himself on saving the old villain by executing a poacher instead, Stirland poured a goblet of boiled water for his guest, and, after a moment’s hesitation, poured water for himself, too.

The things we do for diplomacy he thought, as he drank the damned stuff.

“So,” he said, sitting down at the table, and looking across at Averland, “it’s been a real pleasure having you as my guest. Your tastes are obviously more sophisticated than mine.” Sigmar forgive me for the lies, he thought. “I must say, I’m glad you were such a good sport about the hunting.”

“Yes,” Averland said, his tone miserable, and his eyes as downcast as always. “By the way, my aides tell me that the lunatic who attacked me was executed this afternoon.”

“That’s right,” Stirland said. “I did send you an invitation, but your man told me you were otherwise engaged.”

Averland shivered. “I’ve never liked the sight of blood,” he said, and took a sip of water.

“Anyway,” Stirland said, and, clearing his throat, he started reciting the lines his chancellor had given him. “Although I’m a little embarrassed by the rustic nature of my court, I am glad to have learnt so much from you.”

“Really?” Averland asked, scepticism evident on his face.

“Oh yes,” Stirland lied, “especially about the Strigany. I never realised quite what a plague they were.”

Averland looked as if he’d been slapped. His eyes, usually hooded and downcast, flashed as they fixed on Stirland, and his pallid complexion exploded in blossoms of red and white. Meanwhile, his mouth, usually a miserable frown, twisted into a feral snarl.

Sigmar, thought Stirland, what did I say?

Then Averland spoke, and Stirland realised that the sudden blast furnace of hatred that had opened up in his guest’s face had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with the Strigany.