Chapter 43

  The ambassadorial residence was quintessentially Triton. From the architecture to the décor, it was a place plucked from the kingdom and dropped into Ithica. Hans hadn’t been aware of his homesickness until he had stepped foot in the familiar halls and gazed upon the numerous portraits of his peerage gazing upon him, or the many landscapes of his country lovingly captured as windows to his homeland.

  Within these walls, he could almost forget that he was far from home, on enemy soil.

  The house resembled the man who lived in it. Ambassador Schmitt was a patriot through and through. Of a formerly military disposition, the man was diligent in his duty and serious in his execution of affairs.

  In every position bar one, Hans was Schmitt’s superior and deserving of his allegiance. The one instance where he was subject to Schmitt’s authority the other way round was if he was on the ambassador’s assigned territory. As was the case and without superior orders stating otherwise, Hans was thus duty bound to be liable to the ambassador. That left a bitter taste for Hans and raised his hackles answering to the man of lower birth.

  Fortunately, Schmitt was experienced in his dealings with haughty nobility which made him tolerable for the Lord Hans Weis. While Hans’ report of their meeting with Duchess Sabina and the ensuing interrogation at the hands of Schmitt lasted the better part of an hour, it was conducted in a manner as painless as possible for both parties.

  Nevertheless, Hans was in an annoyed mood as he fulfilled his obligations and bid farewell to the ambassador before returning to his companions.

  The drinks room was a quiet place with only two people. Otto Kaspar lounged on a sofa with a book in one hand while nursing a wine glass in the other. Niklas Lang stooped over the bar top, well into his cups.

  Both men were averse to each other’s company. Niklas simply couldn’t be bothered with the commoner whereas Otto knew an exercise in futility when he saw one in engaging with the elitist Lang.

  Otto Kaspar had lived his life being looked down upon by the Triton nobility, having garnered insight into those that could see beyond social discrepancy and those that couldn’t. Nilkas Lang belonged solely in the blind category.

  Hans entered the room and took stock. Otto made to rise, but Hans gestured him at ease as he walked to Niklas who had barely acknowledged his entrance.

  Hans went round the bar and refilled Niklas’ whisky straight. He poured one for himself, but stealthily diluted it with water and ice when Niklas wasn’t looking. Otto didn’t give himself away that he had spotted Hans’ sleight of hand.

  Niklas took an uncouthly large sip of his drink, gulping the spirit without even enjoying its refinement. Hans hid his grimace at the waste of good whiskey.

  “Can’t get her out of my head,” Niklas sworn, his words slurring.

  Hans took a sip of his own and leaned against the bar. “Who?”

  Niklas scoffed, as if there could be any other. “That temptress. Sabina,” he caressed her name, shaking his head like a wet dog before shooting back his glass.

  Even as Niklas enjoyed the burn at the back of his throat, Hans had already refilled his glass.

  “I want her,” Niklas confessed with a sickly gleam to his eyes, licking his lips with a snake’s tongue. “I must have her.”

  Hans looked surreptitiously to the windows for eavesdroppers. He too had been bewitched by the Duchess. Only he wasn’t the fool to speak out his fantasies.

  “Never liked dark-haired ones,” Niklas went on, increasingly inebriated. “But for her,” he insinuated with a slimy grin. He shuffled in his chair, easing his erection. “There must be whores that look like her. No,” he grunted. “I will have a slave made like her. Yes!” he exclaimed with sleazy excitement. “I will have Sabina as my slave,” he salivated, drooling at the idea. He took another gulp of whiskey, getting progressively incoherent. “I will have her on all fours worshipping me as my plaything. Bound and gagged. In chains and in pain.”

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  Hans masked his distaste for the repulsive creature before him even as he refilled the glass once again. Not for the first time this journey, he was to endure listening to the depraved and vulgar workings of the revolting man.

  “They don’t make them like they do here,” Niklas stated drunkenly. “Sluts have more fight in them. More fun to beat it out of them. Choke them. Bite them. Lick their tears,” he rasped like a dog in heat.

  Hans kept Niklas plied with alcohol and with every drink, Niklas turned more repulsive and uglier, revealing the monster beneath. Till the point that the alcohol finally tipped over his tolerance and had him down for the count.

  Grateful to get rid of the nuisance and not suffer his company a second more, Hans ordered two servants to deposit Niklas to his chambers.

  Hans watched the men half drag, half support Niklas out the room. He contemplated for a moment, gazing into his own drink. He finished it off in one swig. The foul company had robbed him of its enjoyment.

  Hans walked over to Otto and sat opposite. Otto kept quiet and stoic, reserving his impression and waited patiently.

  Hans appreciated Otto Kaspar. The man was sharp as a razor. Ambitious and sly, but knowing his place and not overstepping his station. Not once in their month-long journey had Otto given Hans any cause for complaint.

  Hans didn’t need to be a seer to know that Triton needed more of Otto Kaspars and less of Niklas Langs.

  ‘But there will be always be a use for those like Niklas,’ thought Hans about his plans for the wretch. After all, Niklas wasn’t brought for his personality. ‘Or perhaps he was,’ Hans entertained the notion and smirked. Which earned him an inquisitive look from Otto.

  “What do you think Otto?” asked Hans with tired benevolence.

  “About what, Lord Weis?” Otto asked back.

  The insinuation that there was more than one thing that Otto was privy to gave Hans pause for deliberation.

  Otto was playing a gambit and leaving it to Hans’ discretion if he wanted to bring him in on his scheming. Hans pondered, deciding to revisit the conundrum at a later date.

  “For now,” Hans stressed the incentive, “I would know your thoughts on what the boy said,” he ordered.

  “That depends,” inferred Otto, leaning back in his sofa, “on whether he was speaking for someone else.”

  Hans mimicked Otto’s relaxed posture, the gesture hinting at Otto to continue, “I am inclined to believe that he was speaking at the behest of the Duchess. Which limits our options.”

  “I am inclined to agree,” Hans showed his assent. “The alliance between the Crofts and the Duchess is strong.”

  Otto nodded. “Decisive action was always unlikely. By your leave, I advise that we think long term and act accordingly with our planned strategies.”

  Hans was in agreement. It had been a fool’s hope more than an actual possibility. Unlikely that they would have been able to scupper the Croft and Ashworth alliance and take their place instead.

  Rather, the objective had always been to investigate and make the most of a bad situation. Triton had lost this hand, but that didn’t mean that they were out of the game. Even having lost the opening battle, there was still a chance to win the war.

  And if they were truly out of it, then they had to limit the damage and work towards accruing any advantages they could in their favor.

  For Hans, that meant presenting an olive branch to the Croft family on behalf of Triton and procuring guarantees of their continued business and commitment to the kingdom.

  Meanwhile, Otto was chosen with a similar mind on behalf of Triton merchants and banks to extend incentives and compensations in future dealings to keep the Crofts enticed.

  Both Hans and Otto were playing messenger on behalf of those much higher up the chain of command.

  But for Hans and Niklas, this whole venture served as added punishment for their original failure in acquiring Gwen Croft. Being the rejected suitors sent to attend the engagement of the very woman who had denied them served as ample humiliation for all to see. A black mark on their name and a huge loss of face not only for themselves individually, but for their families and factions as well.

  All at the hands of their fellow countrymen.

  Such was the game of politics. There was blood in the water and the sharks were circling. Didn’t matter if it were their own they were cannibalizing.

  The degrading reminder soured Hans’ mood further. “What do you think of Hektor?” he asked almost to distract himself. “You were quick to engage him,” he let the accusation hang.

  “As he said himself, the boy is a puppet who acknowledges that he is a puppet. Following the act, I asked questions that were meant to be asked and I thought it better they came from me than you, Lord Weis, or Lord Lang,” Otto reasoned with a straight face. “If I overstepped, I apologize.”

  Hans waved away the halfhearted apology. “I am strangely disappointed. I expected more of Ashworth’s flesh and blood.”

  “He is still young,” Otto hedged. “But I agree. I expected more given the Duchess. If I may be bold as to ask, did you learn anything new?” he inquired suggestively of spies and clandestine reports.

  Hans shook his head. “The same. The boy resembles an academic and little else. He hasn’t even trained in weaponry,” he murmured and was lost to his thoughts with a faraway look in his eyes.

  Otto, wisely, didn’t interrupt the Lord Weis in his musings and quietly enjoyed his wine.