Hey all! Tuesday means Powder, Primer, Shot, as you should well know by now. So here it is, the latest installment! I hope you enjoy it. Leave a comment letting my know your thoughts, what aspects you like, what you don't, etc. That helps me improve the story!
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Spring, already late, had become recalcitrant. Almost as quickly as it had come, it had gone once more, turning slush puddles into irregularly shaped surfaces of ice. With it had gone what little joy Bravye had managed to carve out for herself by dealing with Honsehauk as he had so richly deserved.
It had reached the point that Isoli had actually snapped at her, forcibly removing the bottle that had been a cold sort of comfort from her hand and physically steering her into the bath. Snosote had joined Isoli in this betrayal, causing a shockingly thorough disappearance of every wine and liquor bottle Bravye had thought successfully hidden in the office, her bedroom, her sitting room, and the library.
A day had passed since then. The skies were just as gloomy as ever, with the threat of a late season snow heavy in the air. Brayve sat staring at the clouds through the window, unable to focus on the papers and ledgers on the desk behind her.
At the sound of a commotion out in the hallway her head snapped around. She immediately regretted it as the motion disoriented her, leaving her clutching for the edges of the desk to steady herself. Sweaty fingers gripped the wood as she gulped down air, fighting to regain some sense of equilibrium.
“I told you, she’s not well today. You have to let her rest!” Isoli’s voice was stern, the sort of thing one would expect of a mother scolding her children, and not of a maid.
The voice that answered her was just as stern, but far deeper. “Well or not, this will not wait. Step aside, Isoli.”
“I won’t! Be off with you!”
Bravye groaned. She knew the man’s voice extremely well, and knew the character of the man wielding it. He could be just as stubborn as Isoli, if he felt it necessary. He also was a very sharp man. If he insisted on finding her, he had reason. She felt an already troubled stomach flop, and her mind begin to spin of its own volition in spite of the muddled state it was in.
“Get out of the way, Isoli. It’s urgent.”
“Let him in, Isoli,” Bravye called. “You know just as well as I that my brother is not going away.”
She could almost feel the disapproval radiating through the wall. However, the door swung open with no further protests.
The man that walked in was stocky, young, and richly appointed. A gold belt buckle cinched the cloth of his cashmere kilt. The oilcloth of his outer jacket was not particularly luxurious, but the toggle buttons were also gold, with finely detailed etchwork decorating them. The scarf around his neck was just as rich a material as his kilt, and made to match. Bravye had no doubt that, were he to remove the raincoat, the jacket and waistcoat beneath would be of a rich grey velveteen, with a textured pattern created in the weave of the cloth rather than with dyes.
The man gave her a sharp eye as he walked over to the desk. “You act like you don’t relish my visits, Bravye.”
“Isoli wasn’t lying to you. I really am feeling out of sorts today.”
Frowning, he leaned over the desk and put a hand to her forehead. Startled, she leaned away from it, bring up her own to swat it away.
“Kern!” she gasped. “Just because you’re my brother doesn’t mean you can get away with that!”
“Your skin’s cold, but you’re sweating.” Kern shook his head. “I guess you really are ill.” He turned to the door, where Isoli stood, glowering. “Hot tea please, Isoli.”
“Mulled wine would be better,” Bravye objected. “It will take the edge off, I think.”
She watched as Kern and Bravye exchanged a conspiratorial look. Before she could fathom what it meant, Isoli stepped back out into the hall, then gestured. Snosote seemed to almost materialize out of thin air in front of the senior maid, an expectant look on her face.
“Tea, Snosote,” Isoli commented.
Snosote disappeared as quickly as she had come.
“I said wine,” Bravye snapped.
“Tea is fine,” Kern responded, his voice calm and reasonable.
“I am the mistress of this house!” Bravye shouted. She felt her cheeks heating with anger. “My maid is to obey me, not you! Wine, Isoli!”
“Forget the wine,” Kern replied. He moved to block her view of the head maid. “We have more important things to talk about.”
“Not until this is settled to my satisfaction!”
“Brayve!” Kern shouted. He leaned in so that his face was only inches from hers. “Sit. Down.”
A cold ripple of shock ran through her. Suddenly feeling dizzy, her mind suddenly uncertain of what was going on, she dropped to her chair.
Across from her, Kern unbuttoned his rain coat. Removing it, he handed it to Bravye, then sat down as well.
“Better,” he said, his voice reasonable and calm. “I realize you are not feeling particularly well today, and I apologize for disrupting your rest, but this truly is important. They’re convening the Moot.”
The alarm Bravye had first felt when she’d heard the commotion in the hall came back with full force. “The Moot? But they only hold that during the warm months.”
“Unless they feel something is important enough to get their old bones away from their warm fires and settle them on cold, stone benches under threatening skies. Someone has convinced them of just that, and now the clan elders and family heads are being called out.”
“But why? What is so urgent?”
Kern locked his eyes with hers. “Accusations that a woman is sabotaging the war effort.”
“But that’s ridiculous! What woman would have the ability to…”
Bravye’s objection stumbled to a halt. She found herself cursing the fog that seemed to be hindering her efforts to think. Of course they meant her. Why else would Kern seem so insistent it was urgent he speak with her immediately.
“What is this really about, Kern?”
“It’s about you, Bravye. Blaistrupe died last fall. It is, in spite of the weather, spring already. But the matter of Blasitrupe’s estate remains unsettled. It was supposed to be settled”
“Within a month,” Bravye interrupted. “I know. But what does this have to do with the war?”
Kern pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back in the chair. “Nothing. And everything. It’s the excuse they are going to use.” He sighed. “They resent you, sister. You’re violating everything they believe to be right and good. Most of them thought that things had been settled months ago. They were convinced that Blasitrupe’s estate had been quietly settled by the family, and that they hadn’t heard anything because it had gone smoothly.”
“What family? We had no children. Fiskeyorn died two years ago and Blastitrope had no brothers. Or cousins, either. There was no one to pass it to.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Kern groaned. “It’s rare that there is no living blood relation to pass things to, but it does happen. The traditions and laws are clear on what is to be done in such a case, and the elders are asking why the heir has not stepped in and asserted his rights.”
“Who?”
“Me.”
Bravye stared at Kern in shock. Of course he was the heir. It seemed obvious the moment he said it. If no blood relations survived, then the closest male relation by marriage was to inherit.
“But you’ve never even mentioned inheriting it.”
“Because I didn’t want it. Blast it all, Bravye, what would I do with it?” He rose and began pacing the small room, walking from where Isole still stood by the door to the corner. “What do I know about steel, or furnaces? I make clothing, by the One!. I can take nearly any raw fiber, see that it is spun, woven, cut, and stitched to make anything from sails to uniforms to ladies undergarments! But I’d be hard pressed to even drive a nail, let alone make one.
He stopped pacing, and turned to face Bravye from the corner. “If I am forced to take over as Blaistrupe’s heir I’d never be able to manage it successfully. I’d have to hire a manager to take over, at the very least, and I know no one I’d trust to do the job.”
“Me,” Bravye gasped. “If I let you have the factory, I could manage it for you, like I did when Blaistrupe left.”
Kern shook his head. “No, you couldn’t.”
Bravye bristled. “Of course I could! I have been! For over a year!”
“Bravye. Beloved sister. Believe me when I say I doubt any man living could do a better job than you have done. Under your guidance mountains of stone enter that foundry and rivers of steel flow out. I have no doubts at all about your ability.” Sighing he returned to the chair and sat in it again. “But the elders would never allow it. Now that their attention has turned this way they know you have been running things in complete defiance of their beliefs, expectations, and cherished laws and traditions.
“Women aren’t designed for the burden of industry and commerce. They cannot bear the weight of so many workers, so many financial decisions, so many demands. They know this. They know this as surely as they know that the sun will rise in the east in the morning. The fact that you and I know that you can do this is as heretical to them as a suggestion to them that they could, and should, cast the devilish magics of the elves.”
“But…” She tried to object, but she couldn’t find anything she could say that would change the truth of what he was saying.
Kern grimaced. “They’re calling together the moot this early because they are utterly convinced that you have been hampering steel production for the past year by not knowing your place. As far as they are concerned, I’m complicit, because I have not taken what should be mine. I suspect some of the elders are already angling for neither of us to have the foundry, or even this house.”
An uncomfortable silence fell as Snosote entered the room, carrying a tray with two cups and a steaming carafe. Neither looked at the other as she poured, and the only sound was the setting of the full cups before each of them.
Finally, Kern reached over to pick up his tea and take a sip from it. As the steam off the tea rolled around his mustache and curled about his nose, Bravye forced herself to speak.
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know,” her brother sighed. “I really don’t know.”
