XIII.

• No one was ready when the storm came. Corna was in full reign when the first black cloud blotted the sky. Tarna was clear in the sky, completely outshined by its brother’s rays. Yet when the black cloud started to grow, the thin circle of Tarna’s edge shown like a ring of fire. Solsticeans watched as the cloud grew, and instead of blowing from east to west, or south to north… it just fell toward them. It rushed down like a crashing rolling wave, like dye dripped into a basin of water.
• It grew and grew, until the day sky was nothing more than the Morendo night. He watched from the Northern Canopy that wrapped around the highest point of the Rhonteville estate. The cloud rushed down, and then spread outward like a living beast. Then there was the cold blast of wind, so strong that it smashed the shutters against the house, and knocked the petals off flowers. He felt the cold air, but didn’t shy away from it. He could hear the faint ringing of silence, the far off pulsing click of energy. He knew what was coming, but of course he wasn’t ready for it.
• The Cloudbreak.
• The rain that followed was something out of Rentis-Sphere itself. It slashed through his warm petticoat, chilling him to the bone. Yet the sensation exhilarated him, it made him feel alive. He raised his arms to the sky and let the drops smash against him, some even stung where they struck. The sound was like a million little drums sweeping across the horizon in a chaotic rhythm; beating out the sound of life. If the sound had not been so deafening, maybe Jun would have heard the desperate pleas for him to come indoors.
• Perhaps he did hear, and chose to ignore them.
• Yet somehow that didn’t seem right. When it came down to it, he didn’t feel like he had much of a choice at all. The storm had him in its grasp, it commanded his attention with all of its glory; and just like the obedient child he stood before its wrath, prepared for its punishment. The sprawling hillside vanished, the lights from the Industrial district were doused, even the stars and suns in the sky seemed tucked away. For a brief moment everything was a cold screaming cacophony of water and wind.
• In elation he raised his fists to the sky, and commanded his voice to scream.
• Then the flash came. So bright it turned everything a shade of pale white; and lingered longer than any bolt of lightning had a right to do. But where he expected a clap to follow, there was only silence; and the rain started to slow, as if repelling the ground. The drops, long and thin and curved by the wind sat suspended in the air like a billion shining-glass figurines; and he was their sole collector. There was a brief moment, a second where nothing moved. Even the wicked bolt of light, blackish blue around the edges, only twisted with a languid painfulness.
• Yet he felt comfort at staring at it.
• And stare he did.
• Until he saw something moving amidst the stillness.
• He leaned forward over the canopy to get a better look, but the rain created an opaque blur. Everything was smeared, and whatever it was that moved appeared to be more like shifting colors than a tangible object. He strained to see through the veil of rain, the gleaming droplets shown like crystal glass in frozen time. It was a white smudge in time; a person, judging by the way it moved. Its pace was direct, purposeful and quick; through the blinding flash of the light made it impossible to be sure where it was going or what it intended, if anything at all.
• Just when he lost sight of the object, the flash vanished; and the world was plunged into darkness. Chaos ensued, rain crashed against him; sprawling him back against the slammed shuttered. Wind held him tight, and the Clap of thunder that followed threatened to separate each of his bones at the joints. He screamed in fright, the pressure of the bang was loud enough to knock the air from his lungs. He struggled to inhale, but the pressure was too great; and the mighty howling wind forced him down.
• Long moments passed, he began to pass out.
• Flash.
• The bolt was less brilliant, perhaps even farther away; yet suddenly the pressure was relieved, and he found himself glancing over the canopy once more. He searched for movement, opened his eyes wide; but there was nothing but stillness and the sound of snapping, twisting, coiling energy. He suddenly wondered if he had imaged seeing anything at all, he glanced to his left and right; expected something.
• But there was no one. He wasn’t hallucinating.
• He was moving in frozen time. And something else out there was moving as well.
• He wasn’t alone.
• How is this possible?
• It was then that Jun realized his aches had vanished: the sprained muscles, the bruised bones, and sore muscles. There was a moment of confusion, but somehow he knew everything was connected to the storm. Somehow he was connected to this storm, somehow tied to the energy it illuminated.
• His mind filled momentarily with memories of another time. A time of childhood games and laughter, of physical exertion, of passionate love; all of these events flashed before him, all around him. He tried to focus on one, but they were so brief. They slipped like sand through his fingers: a man with a pack and walking-stick, a girl with a doll, a boy and his mother, two friends with flowers. They paraded before him again and again. His head spun the more he tried to focus, so he let go and let the images pass.
• When the flash vanished, the rain slammed back into him. The Clap threw him back a few feet, but he held his ground. The wind pulled at his cloak, ripped at his hair; but he stood firm. He tried again to call forth the memories, but they were gone. It was as if he had never had them.
• The faces were blank.
• The people were no one he knew.
• The memories were simply not there. As if they had never been his in the first place.
• That’s when he heard the plea; the shout of warning, the begging to come inside where it was safe. He turned to the faint light illumination spilling from inside the Mansion and flinched. Such a dull harsh light had none of the life, none of the power and soothing that the storm could produce. For a moment he felt like a beast, shrinking away from a blazing torch. But then the moment passed, and he remembered who he was.
• Jun.
• I am Harver Jun.
• I am Hallen Alwice.
• I am the Kingwood.
• The voices clashed, ran over each other; repeating again and again.
• His vision shook, and stomach roiled. Suddenly the small hairs on his arms and neck caught fire and blazed in a smoke. He crouched like a cornered beast, the pain searing over him; coming somewhere from deep within. His voice rang out, a symphony of screams; too loud to be drown by the storm. Other screams joined him, the deaths of millions filled his heart. The images of those vague memories filled each crevice of his mind. Every muscle in his body spilt through his skin and popped like an exploding fruit overripe in the sun.
• Then there was another flash.
• His head bubbled. His bones snapped. His veins split. His Heart collapsed. And blood went everywhere. Even through closed eyes, he could see his inevitable death; and the gore that was what remained of him. Yet somehow, he was alive, his thoughts didn’t stop. His eyes moved here and there, and watched his body die. It burnt like flesh on the fire, turned to coal, then to dust, and blew away in the wind. His leaves took flight, burning like little flits of paper.
• His memories were all that remained.
• And then the world became still.
• When he opened his eyes, Jun saw the Kingwood before him.
• He blinked, but the vision never changed.
• Between him and the bark there was a person, a man. He was on his knees, hands folded together, eyes closed; long dark hair hanging before his face, which was streaked with tears. The man was whispering, crying, begging. Jun knew. He knew this man.
• Familiar to him, important, personal. Yet Jun couldn’t think of his name, couldn’t recall his past or even his relationship. He could only recognize the man for what he was.
• Father.
• And that’s when the words became clear.
• “Watch over my Jun. Give him the strength to grow strong, to be kind, and make this world a better place. Give him the patience and the understanding to be gentle; to trust in others, yet to be strong when he needs strength. Give my son his rightful reward, and grant him his deserving penance. Yet most of all, I beg of you…
• “Give him the grace to forgive me.”
• It was a sending.
• The man was running away.
• NO! But his voice didn’t sound.
• “…Someday, I will return...”
• I’ll never forgive you!
• “…And we’ll be a family, like we were always meant to be…”
• You left us! TRAITOR!
• “…Watch over my son…”
• YOU CURSED US! YOU CONDEMNED US!
• “Jun Harver…someday…your name shall be Jun Harver…”
• Then the vision was gone. The flash of lightning split the trunk of the Kingwood and it exploded into nothing. Jun stared out over the horizon; limbs shaking in rage and fury. He screamed, his voice finally working. The world was silence, the world was stillness; yet still his voice sounded muffled. He cried out in a rage he had never before known. Some dark corner of him spilled out into his soul; and he fought to contain it.
• “No! No! No! Stop it! I’ll—never—break!” He gulped in mouthfuls of air, the veins on the side of his head bulged as he forced the emotion back into submission. It was painful, but the shadow receded; and the mouthfuls of air forced himself to calm. He swallowed hard again the effort and gasped. He smacked his head with his palm, locking the memory in the recesses of his mind.
• A memory he should not have been able to see.
• A memory that was not his.
• A memory that never occurred.
• Couldn’t have occurred.
• His father was dead. To him, to the rest of the world.
• Yet see it, he did. Through the eyes of the Kingwood
• “Never.” Jun stood back to his feet, empty of emotions and exhausted from the spiritual strain. “I’ll never turn back, never forgive. Never give up.” His fists were clenched, his eyes stared deep into the bolt of pure energy. “I’ll never forgive you. Never.” The energy started to vanish, Jun felt the soothing presence start to fade. “Never.” Then it moved, a blur of white, a sprawling misshapen thing. It was alive, but Jun knew it wasn’t human. He tried to get a better look, but just before he could figure out what it was, the darkness returned.
• His mind wondered what it could be.
• Something inside told him it was better not to know.
• ***
• His hand hurt. His arm, shoulder, neck, back, legs; everything seemed to ache. He wasn’t looking forward to the bruises that would develop. But he grit his teeth and tried to block out the pain. The tip of the sword remained outward, level with his opponent’s nose; the hilt grasped in his smashed right fist. Droplets of blood were leaking between his knuckles, so he had to clutch tight to keep the blade from slipping his grasp. He skirted his rear foot out to his left, and followed with his lead foot; making sure to keep his torso back over his rear leg.
• Keep your body away from the blade.
• A simple concept that Jun hadn’t been able to learn quite yet.
• Whyburr Steevs stood across from him, his form was a perfect balance of grace and poise; art and danger. Expertise and flamboyance. And Jun wanted nothing more than to smash his lightweight wicker sword straight across the grinning man’s ridiculous face. The other feinted, and Jun stepped back; sloppy but recovering just in time for Whyburr to laugh. Jun stepped in with his lead foot, and Whyburr stepped back in response; the motion fluid, one foot leading the next.
• Jun took note how it was supposed to look.
• And got whacked across the top of the head.
• “Dead.” Whyburr danced away like a gay little sprite and gave a flamboyant show of accepting a crowd’s raucous applause. “Thank you! Thank you!” Vastillion glared on, obviously unhappy with his assignment.
• “A graceful victory my lord.” The drone was dryer than air.
• Jun nursed his head with his bleeding hand, not caring the state he appeared to be in. “What no kind words for me, crow?” The butler just continued to frown, as he always did. His face a constant pose of utter disappointment.
• “A valiant effort, Master Alwice. Perhaps a few more rounds and you’ll have him.”
• “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
• Vastillion just glowered. “Immensely.” Whyburr burst out a youthful laugh and danced nimbly on his feet. Jun could feel where the welt would appear, and at this rate he would look more deformed than Mr. Club. Yet something drove him onward; some competitive machismo had a grasp on him. And it embarrassed him.
• “Again.”
• “Oh give it a rest! Anymore and Arniold will have me strung for damage of property.” Steevs complained stretching his shoulders in wide circular swings. “Aren’t you tired? You’re a bloody mess. I think sulking may be more your true calling.” Jun lifted his practice sword in preparation, and got back into stance. Whyburr sighed and mirrored him.
• “Sulking. Yes. Then I could get Vastillion to be my mentor.” Whyburr sneered but kept his eyes sharp, never letting down his guard while engaged in a duel.
• “How humorous.” It didn’t sound it.
• “May as well try; at this rate I think Vastillion may have better luck striking me than you have.”
• “Luck has nothing to do with it.”
• “You don’t think so?” Steevs lunged forward, and Jun moved to parry; too late. In a single fluid motion, the other feinted and stepped sideways; pivoting his thrust into a slash. Jun turned just in time to catch the sword across the shoulder. Steevs retreated a step, all the while maintaining poise. “Dead.”
• “From that?”
• “Have you ever been cut by a blade?” Jun didn’t reply, he didn’t feel the need for Whyburr to know that information. “In a duel, any wound is death. Without the full cooperation of your arm, what chance do you think you would stand against me? Not dead now, dead then. Do you think there’s a difference? Dead is dead.” Jun knew the truth to that, and grit his teeth through the throbbing in his arm. He lifted his sword and was alarmed to see how slow it moved.
• “I’m not giving up.”
• “That’s good; I haven’t done beating you yet.”
• And it was the truth. After another half hour of sparring, Jun had yet to lay a blow on the man. Despite his infuriating demeanor, Whyburr Steevs was a master with the blade. Jun tried every trick he could conceive, he even tried to use the clues and hints that Whyburr would vaguely offer. But nothing worked. Now and then he would manage to parry a strike, but they were far and few in between. At the end of the session one thing was clear.
• Jun had little hope of beating Whyburr in a duel.
• “Perhaps a hot bath would be nice. Remove some of that dried blood from your hair.”
• “Shut up, Vastillion.”
• “Yes, sir.”
• Arinold was rarely to be seen, always busy moving here or there. Frantic in the preparation for the Nientia Ball. Whyburr had spoken against it, warning that such a frivolous occasion during a recession may not be wise. But of course the Duke just scoffed at him; “recession!” So things went on as planned, and Jun was tasked to ensure everyone pulled their weight. Food was prepped, walls were washed, floors were polished, décor was hung, ornaments were carved, banisters were colored, aromas were smoked and fanned, silks were cut, costumes were crafted, and most importantly libations were procured.
• Pick up ten dozen stones of meal from Jhopan’s millers, get Coie Hespin’s mute daughter to embroider each invited guest’s family crest on the red satin banners, select drink-men for each member of the Solstice finest and make sure they know how and when to pour. Deliver the invitations, deliver the suits to be tailored, have a wood carver craft masks, and get feathers. Long White feathers.
• I want swans.
• I want fish, big colorful fish. Not for eating.
• Have our SmokeMaster prepare the obelisks, all three. Have him pre-pack the Ghielrout. And the Troubrout. Red leaves. Pallamebs. Dolcheels. And we need more dibbits. And don’t forget the libations!
• Over and over, a never ending slew of tasks streamed from the Duke; and Jun began to understand why everyone called him the Taskmaster. Multiple times Jun had overheard the staff using the title, and each time he knew it was the Harvesters. As Jun had suspected, they were growing tired of their new master; and time spent relaxing in a prison-cell was sounding more and more like vacation.
• “Hal! There you are! Have you had Coie Hespin’s mute daughter draw out the maps for the Brood and Victim game? We are going to need three dozen without servant passages, and at least four dozen with. Listen, I was thinking of having some of the Harvesters dress as Rentis-Brood. Do you think they would be opposed to that? I know your kind takes that rubbish solemnly. But it’s all for fun right? Oh just, make them do it if you have to! Tell them they can have an extra meal if they so wish!”
• And like that, he was off again.
• The first interaction since the storm two days ago.  The Duke was beside himself with rage, the aesthetic damage done to the house had been tremendous. But of course only the Duke seemed to notice, Jun filled out work-reports and construction orders for hours; the first real endurance test for his fingers. The work had been tedious at best, and with the Nientia Ball approaching, Vastillion had been re-cast as event courier. Jun was left scrawling with the infuriating ink-quill; battling the never ending stack of paper sheets.
• Dab. ‘…for the order of…’ dab, ‘…thirteen dozen…’ dab, ‘…Colonial Style shutter…’ dab, ‘…replacement…’ dab, ‘…hinges…’ Flip the sheet. ‘Request for…’ dab, ‘…nineteen window pa…’ dab, ‘…ne dividers…’ dab, ‘Priority order.’ Pull a new sheet. Crack knuckles, dab. ‘Request the order of…’ dab, ‘…two-score, insulation…’ dab, ‘…twelve-inch, copper heating…’ dab, ‘piping.’
• Over and over, Jun droned on. Half the time he was in a state of pure mindlessness; only dimly aware that he spoke every word he wrote. And he spoke until his voice became hoarse, and he wrote until his fingers cramped, and he stretched until he couldn’t any more. His eyes grew bleary, his back became still, and it hurt to move his neck. And after another hour of writing he stopped.
• He looked down at the sheet he had just signed.
• An order for two crates of the edible viridian dye used to color pastries. Jun laughed, his fingers tightening; punching holes in the thin material. The thing he was holding, the single sheet of paper was worth more in coin than a square yard of Autumn-grass in Harvesthome. Months of labor could pay for a thin journal, and nothing more. And sprawled before him now were stack and stacks of paper; requesting pastries, and fabrics, and dyes, and attendance, and even more paper was paired for the rejection letters that would never get read.
• Jun lost control. He broke into laughter, an uncontrollable bout of rage surged through him.
• “It’s all so Fuckin’ pointless!” He looked around the room, and everything he saw was an aesthetic design. Two grand fireplaces, shelves and cabinets that held nothing but blank sheets and old ledgers that only existed to be cleaned every other night. There were tapestries and carpets, furs and statues. Yet in that moment Jun could not have been more disgusted. The room wasn’t even built properly to hold warmth, which was why it needed two fireplaces.
• Waste.
• Everything was excess.
• “What the Fuck have I been Doing?!”
• Jun felt his breath growing short, his fists clenched. His teeth were grit, and his rage swirled around him like a fire out of control. He hated this. Everything he had done, everything he had learnt and become in this place. He wanted to cast it aside, curse it all. He wanted to tear at his hair, rip the padding off the chairs; burn the papers and the thousand needless requests they held. Yet he didn’t.  His rage demanded action, his blood pumped with eager release; but he calmed himself.
•    “Everything costs coin, and information costs the most.” The words came forth like a spell, and instantly his mind opened. His eyes settled on the stack of papers, and right before his eyes they changed. They transformed into a treasure trove of delectable information that Jun had swindled due to the monotony of the task in preparing them. The responsibility he had been entrusted with was endless, the trust misplaced on him was a key. It was the greatest opportunity, the most potentially inviting gift he could possibly wish for.
• He set about his task again, this time paying attention to the orders.
• “Twelve dozen pewter dinner sets, Priority shipment.” Jun smiled, wondering how he could use this to his advantage. But dinner sets didn’t seem to have a benefit towards rebellion. He brushed the quill to his lips and thought. What would he do with twelve dozen pewter dinner sets? Melt them down? Make them into a trap?
• He kicked himself for his stupidity. He was thinking like a dark-alley murderer. He shook himself, stood and paced the room. “Come on. Think.” He stretched his back and glanced around the room as if looking for something to jump out to him. Only the eyes of stuffy white men stared back at him, dead eyes behind the realism of one lack of creativity. He looked into the tapestry, saw the detail, the finely tuned strokes of the brush that were all but invisible to the naked eye.
• And he was sick by the waste.
• Coin. Jun thought for a moment, the idea seemingly impossible. But the more he considered it, the more possible it seemed. He marched over to the dark-wooden desk and armed his quill. He scratched out the twelve and wrote the word eleven in its place. “Eleven dozen pewter dinner sets, Priority shipment.”
• He wondered how much pewter cost.
• For the next three hours he short-changed all of the Duke’s orders. Cross referencing Vastillion’s ledger, and subtracting the fractions out as Arinold had taught him not a week ago. He smiled at the irony of using his newly found math skills to fuck his teacher over. And then he laughed when he read the tally of how much money he would accumulate.
• The best part is that the Duke would never know, he was too occupied with his social engagements and political games to notice how many settings of pewter dishware arrived for the party. So Jun continued on with the never ending stack of papers, and found their numbers exciting.
• He halved the fucking pastry request.
• Doubled the cutlery order.
• And readdressed the order for ‘eighteen young prostitutes’, to be sent somewhere out into the Widows. Jun smiled wickedly as he fabricated the Duke’s signature, and then made multiple copies of the same letter; stuffing them in many different envelopes. Somehow Nor would find one; and even if she didn’t, he could image the reaction these letters would stir.
• Jun was reaching the end of the endless stack when he pulled out a sheet of paper somewhat thicker than half the others. His jaw dropped when he read the order.
• A request for a personalized firearm, as so crafted by Clockstern Industries. The intricate details ranged from the color of the hilt, to the welding along the barrel. He cross referenced the cost in Vastillion’s ledger and nearly dropped to the floor. Four dozen Blessings. Forty eight golden coins, an unbelievable fortune; even for the wealthiest of the Solstice-Upper. Jun stared at the paper, thoughts playing across his mind for a moment.
• “Planning on some action, Arinold?” Jun held the paper in his hands, noticing the specifications of the delivery time, location, even the delivery-man himself. Altering this document would go noticed. Jun bit his lip. “What would I do with Forty-eight Blessings.” Was the risk worth it? Jun re-read the amount, imagining the weight of the golden coin.
• He sighed.
• Scratch. Readdressed to Majore Jeleps.
• ‘Get me a deal…’ dab, ‘…and the shooter is yours…’ dab, ‘…after he dies.’
• Seal. Stamp. On to the next one.
• “He knows too much about your estate, and your affairs. He’s discontent by nature, bitter, and difficult to deal with. That’s not just frustrating, it’s dangerous. You don’t need him spilling secrets better kept unknown.” Jun left out the part about being Majore’s informant, but he wasn’t opposed to using that piece should the King become entrapped. The last few hours had been more complicated than the final moves of a Dalgroban match, each pair of eyes seemed to watch him with suspicion. He had to tell himself to ignore the sensation, but it was hard. After all, he was winding the strings of a hundred tiny events, stretching them out into darkness and tying them to puppets he hoped he had control over. If everything went according to plan, Solstice would be his by the rise of Corna.
• If not, he would be dead; his legacy and the struggles of his people gone along with it. He caught the Duke’s eye and frowned, trying to push failure from mind. Arinold straightened the collar on his white silk shirt, and pulled the ivory thread the white cape. 
• “This again? Hal, I grow tired of your base concerns in my servants’ allegiance. I took you on as a Ward, not a coaxer. Now stop harassing my staff. A dignified man has no secrets!” The Duke snapped.
• “Vastillion would sell your draft to Majore for two blessings to rub together.”
• “Why should I care about that?”
• “Because information is Majore’s weapon.” This gave the Duke pause, and for a moment Jun thought he had won. But the moment passed, and was blanketed by silence.
• “Odd, but you may have a point.” The Duke turned to Jun and his glare became cold. “Seems as if Majore has predicted my every move until this point… The caravans, your visit to the brothel; suppose he has an informant?”
• “Yes! Exactly my point! Vastillion—”
• “No.” The word stopped him dead. “No, not Vastillion. Wouldn’t that be too obvious? Then again, perhaps the most obvious choice would be the one I would overlook most…” Something about the way the words drifted into silence made Jun edgy. He held his breath, knowing the implications of what the Duke was saying. There was a moment, Jun was certain his cover had been ripped from over him. But then the servant approached with the mask, and Arinold’s face completely disappeared behind the array of long white feathers.
• A swan, of course, to match the family crest upon which the Arinold’s name rest. The mask was elegant, yet sturdy; well crafted to exemplify the power and beauty of the majestic creature. From what Jun understood the swan was a large bird, all white save for an orange bill. Yet Orange was a base color for some recent fashion reason, and the Duke had the beak crafted in silver. Jun was impressed, the open back gave room for the Duke’s hair to cascade in a flow of pure white; and when the duke spoke, his voice wasn’t muffled. He simply didn’t look a fool at all, despite looking like a silver swan.
• “You are the epitome of grace, my lord.”
• “Good line. Save it for the others. In truth, I feel like the fat pigeon. I’ve grown complacent, simple, perhaps too hasty to charge after the nearest kernel of grain thrown my way.” The Duke lifted his arm, and long white feathers spread from his sides like wings; they were far too massive to be from any ordinary bird. Jun wondered how much they had cost him. “You must accept my apology. In hopes of finding the answer to my troubles, I have become overly cautious; paranoid even. I have been a poor teacher.”
• “Apology accepted.”
• The Duke snorted. “How kind. You know you were supposed to tell me how I’m not actually a poor teacher, but gracious and kind.” He snatched up a goblet and drank the dark Moonvine within. “No matter. You are good enough; perhaps your quips will light a fire under some asses tonight! Just try not to burn the Manor down.”
• No Promises.
• From that moment things started to fall into play. But they were mirrored by the progress of the Nienta Ball preparations. As the hour approached, the bustle rose to a climax. Servants ran wildly, each with a million tasks to accomplish before the impending doom of their sanity arrived. There were men selected to pour drinks, and Jun had been tasked with selecting each. He chose Arinold’s men, not trusting the Harvesters’ ability to fit the social etiquette. They wore a white wash-cloth over their arm, embroidered with a small symbol fashioned after each house that was to arrive. The green grain of Hespen, the Blue Hawk of Steevs, Gold coins of Jahalis, red-bird of Monole, a black scythe, a pink sun, two grey circles, nine silver dots and a bright blue slash; on and on they went, each symbol a traditional sign of a long standing family.
• And each family had a matching drink-man, easy to identify even from afar. Each family had a matching chair and a table at which for them to sit; though the Duke assured Jun that there would be minimal sitting this night. Which brought the next group of servants who were fashioned as gargoyles, ready to pounce once the order to remove the tables was made. There were cleaners who darted here and there, putting some finishing touches on the spotless Solarium that would inevitably be destroyed by the end of the night. There were servers, who wore masks of indifferent species; each carried an empty tray that would soon be pile with pastries, cheeses, fruits, dibbits, wines, ales, and even hookahs that would burn Ghielrout and a plethora of different spices.
• There were jesters, dressed as each of the families; scheduled to perform after the Nobles were well taken by drink. Cruel jokes were easier to laugh at when drunk, so Jun made sure all the Jesters were Harvesters. There were performers, some selected for the early evening and were quite talented. Those selected for the later evening were less so; a random assortment of self-labeled musicians. “It won’t matter! All will be too drunk to note the change.”
• Cooks were in great supply, but few were able to prepare the complicated dishes. Thus Jun decided that drinks would be served first, to improve the taste of the food. Some servants were dressed to look like Rentis-brood and scattered through the darkest reaches of the houses. Which brought up the next small force of servants, that were responsible for lighting and dousing the fires throughout the house. When the game of Brood and Victim began, there would be need for light and even more need for darkness.
• There were dancers, some for pairing and some for pleasure. Jun had to personally oversee the selection of the later; and though he was excited by the idea of the task it oddly left him bitter and angry. There were only a handful of potential candidates, since they all had to be women and many were either too young or old to fit the part. Jun had to stretch his morals, he had a quota to fill; besides, once placed in a mask it would be impossible to tell one girl from the other.
• Yet Jun had known who he had selected for the roles, and it had taken a toll on him.
• He had to pick Harvesters, since none of the original servants had been female. Many of these girls had lived with  him as a child, even more were Woodsmen with him. These were girls he knew, some by face, and others by name. They glared at him, shot venom from his eyes, and all he could do was watch them dance and sort them like cattle.
• Kea for House Fuela. Dorle and Sarh for House Jurin.
• He spent the preceding hour vomiting, all the while remembering the look of desperation shining in their innocent eyes. If you don’t sacrifice your morals… Jun was finding it harder and harder to believe his own words. He knew what these girls were in store for; he searched for a way out of it.
• So when the doubled order of cutlery arrived, he made sure each girl got their first pick of a very sharp knife. And he personally saw to the delivery of said knife. Yet it did little to brighten his mood, and even less to put them at ease.
• It was kill or be killed, and Jun knew many may not make it through the night alive.
• His thoughts fell to Ronea.
• But there wasn’t time for remorse. With a sympathetic grin he gave the last girl a pat on the shoulder, her doughy brown eyes looked betrayed. She was a young thing, no older than fifteen years of age, and Jun was commanding her to die for his cause. He couldn’t bear to look at them anymore. Yet when he sought refuge, there was always another servant finding him; asking him a question he didn’t know the answer for.
• He ran from one query to the next, signing parchments here, directing servants there, and even sorting through deliveries and orders. His head began to swim, a thousand bits of information crashing together like ripples in a turbulent lake. After what seemed to be an eternity he managed to force his way into the Forward-Court and saw a large group of men hoisting a monstrous statue into place. The Nientia-Ball would not be complete with its most important host: Chalton Rentis.
• Jun marveled at the statue, its ornate design was both epic and delicate. The face was stretched to resemble that of a goats, yet the features were all human. The large dark eyes, the gaping maw, the wrinkled forehead and long tendril like hair. Jun had never seen a representation of Chalton Rentis, but if this is what he looked like he was glad to have never known him. The statute was a sight of grim terror, a solemn reminder of how evil can twist the beauty of a man, and clutch deep to one’s soul.
• It was massive. It was ominous. It was likely to have cost more than half of Harvesthome. Jun watched the men struggle, calling out orders in desperation. Some ran up to help, and Jun was one of them. He pushed through the tight-knit throng, their sweat and grime palpable in the air. He shouted encouragement and grabbed a rope next to a Harvester he only recognized by his dark tan skin. The group pulled together, and despite their numbers it took a great deal of effort to pull the intricately carved statue upright.
• The thud reverberated through the ground and sent up a cloud of dust. The Harvesters roared in victory. Jun felt alive for a moment, remembering the strain of physical labor. Yet when he clapped the man on the back, he was surprised to see shock in the other’s face. The man gave a curt bow and averted his eyes, hurriedly running off to his next task with the remainder of the throng. They split like ants, running off in groups, shouting orders and calling out affirmation. Jun was left alone in the presence of the construction, the setting sun of Corna cast long shadows on its twisted features. The long yard in front of the Mansion was being groomed, and a dozen men and women ran in every direction.
• Some picked up sticks.
• Some swept the dirt.
• Some clipped the hedges.
• And Jun could only stare in amazement. So much to be done, and all of it was for a fucking celebration. Jun doubted the Harvest was even worth this much effort, yet most of the effort would go un-noticed. The nobles would arrive, exchange pleasantries, and then gorge on vices. They would soon be so drunk, they would not be able to determine a man from a latrine. Suddenly Jun realized what the Harvesthome Harvest really meant to these people.
• Nothing.
• It meant nothing at all.
• That is, until it was gone.
• “Master Alwice?” The gruff voice brought Jun out of his reverie, and he turned to see a vaguely familiar face looking down at him through a thick black forest of beard. The man loomed, a whole head taller than Jun and a great deal more barrel-chested. In his arms he held a white case, simple yet industrial in design. Jun glanced from the case to the man and back. The words coming to his lips just as his memory served him.
• “Berny? Burly Berny?”
• “Little guy! I knew I knew you! You’re a good drinker, remember? The Drunktest?” The man laughed like a house falling on rocks. “You seem surprise to see me, neh?”
• “You must be equally confused.”
• “Hoy, true that. Must say, you don’t drink like an Upper. Don’ look like neither, too much skin on your bones; not enough…eh…soft-meat?” The man searched for the word, Jun couldn’t help but smile at the spotted memory of the drunken black-smith. And she fucked him again in the Mooooooorning! “Suppose that’s less important, neh? This thing, I have. It’s for you.”
• “Whatcha got for me, Berny?” Jun reached for the case, but the man retracted it cautiously.
• “Perhaps, there a better place to show you?” The thick accent reeked of ale, Jun smiled despite the urgency and motioned Berny to follow him. They walked across the Forward-court and into the white stables where Arinold kept his most well groomed mares. Inside the smell of horse was present, a much thicker scent than any hart could give off; Jun found himself missing the Queenwood. But there wasn’t much time for that, and this business with Berny had likely cost him valuable minutes.
• Jun slid a crossbeam off one stable where he knew there was no horse, and motioned Berny inside. The man entered cautiously, checking the shadows twice; Jun wondered what the man thought he would find. When the big man felt safe enough, he placed the case on the ground and Jun was alarmed to hear how loud it thudded to the ground.
• The case must have weighed a ton, and Berny carried it like a basket of flowers.
• “This thing you asked of me, it took time to do. Not my best work, but I think it still good.” The snap of latches reverberated in the empty stall, and the man peeked over his should at Jun. “Payment was good, all taken care of so no need to be upset.” When Berny turned Jun realized why he had suggested a secret meeting.
• Before him lay two silver shooters, polished in such a way that even the dim light glittered like sunlight. His heart froze, they lay in black velvet; like two coiled snakes in the pitch of Dal Niente. The craftsmanship was flawless, from the clockwork design of the gears, to the elegant simplicity of the barrel. They were beauty and danger incarnate, and they demanded respect.
• “You’ve outdone yourself, Berny.” The other beamed, his teeth a pearly white compared to his thick black beard. “But why are there two?” The man shrugged and admired his craftsmanship.
• “You gave me enough blessings to make four, so I make two and kept the change as a service charge for the urgency. Took me many hours of late Morendo to make these.” The man gave Jun a serious look. “These are shooters, good ones. You know what that mean, neh? You must use careful, little guy.” Jun smiled at the man’s accent, and Berny misinterpreted the look. “I am serious, little man! They may look it, but these shooters are not actual Clockstern, since I am no Scigfried-man…but they will kill like a Clockstern would.”
• “I will be careful.” Jun said the words as sincerely as possible; the man didn’t seem to believe it.
• “Be safe instead. Don’t shoot them at all.”
• And just like that, Jun had his first shooter.