The Raiselig Dossier: The Landed Duke Part 1
Ad Adwazi, city of lights. Called Neverdark by the beings once indigenous, now foreign to the cobblestoned streets and tight corners. Graveyard to thousands who dreamed of romance and riches beyond the reach of their humble birth-villages, and home to thousands more.
Here, the golden gates of Ahnkarad, where the gilded general himself rode on his black horse through the applauding throngs to pay respects to the new-crowned king. Here, the arch of Razazal, where ten thousand plus ten demons toiled for but four seconds — the holy number — to craft an entryway to the east quarter of the city befitting a magician of Razazal’s renown. Here, the Gardens of Verdant Tranquility, planted by her gracious majesty, the Yanith Queen, whose silver hands, uncovered only in the moonlight, blessed the ground with her holy touch and brought forth flowers undreamed of in the region before or since. Here, the famed Inn of the Ninth Scroll, where the Holy Traveler Lorabesh rested her head for two nights but not three; where Elthred the Wise composed his great epic which is still sung to this day; where Rukyva, Baron of the West Winds, won his bet with the Ilfen Fay; and where the Homeless Friar received his sixth vision of disillusion.
City of lights. Neverdark. Ad Adwazi. The home of legends and stories unmatched in the known lands.
And here, in the southern quarter, at the bottom of an alleyway so dark as to be invisible, so small as to be inconsequential, sits a small and unassuming door.
Above the door is a sign. There are no words on this sign, for many are those who seek the door who have no mastery of the scholarly arts. They know nothing of letters, and perhaps know nothing of the languages spoken by the city’s residents.
But they know this sign. A coiled snake with a stag’s horns. All know this sign who know Ad Adwazi. This is the door that separates Neverdark from a place of peace and respite for those who have nowhere else to rest. An inn, a tavern, and a brothel too for those who are inclined. This, here, is the door to the House of the Horned Serpent.
Through the door, now, as all who seek the door are bound to go. Here, there is darkness, cool and soothing. The candles burn low and bright and cast long shadows, providing ample opportunity to see only what you are looking for and to be ignored once you have found it. There is always a table for those who wish one, or a corner to sleep in, or a fireplace to be warmed by.
It is a place of simple pleasures, and above all, respite for those that seek it.
Deeper into the House of the Horned Serpent, now. Here lies the long bar, where weary feet and hanging heads can rest their elbows as they beg a penny-ale from the tender. Some turn to their side and speak to their erstwhile company. They seek a connection, however faint and fleeting, to the shadows that pass in the night.
But there is one being that no one speaks with, though all see. Impossible to ignore, yet equally impossible to approach, the midnight-skinned Scrivener sits tall in the stool, staring at a thin parchment. The seat next to them houses their bowler hat, carefully brushed and set aside. Next to their hand, a glass of coppery liquid, burnt and bitter.
No one speaks to the Scrivener, save the tender of the bar and owner of the House of the Horned Serpent. She draws closer and speaks, brushing a lock of fleece away from her eyes.
“Another drink?”
Raiselig looked up from their parchment, surprised at her silent approach. “Thank you,” they shook their head. “I’m fine.”
“What is this you are pouring over so carefully?” The woman leaned forward, her paws folding gently on the bar.
Raiselig took a drink from their mug, feeling the thick liquid curl down their throat. It wasn’t the same. “Scrivener business,” they wiped their mouth.
“Hmm.” The woman rested her cheek upon her paw. “And what can I do to get you to study me with such intensity?”
Raiselig heaved a sigh. “Lady Calchona, we have had this discussion before —”
“Good grief, Raisel, will you never learn to laugh?” Calchona pulled their mug to her lips, stealing a sip. “Or we could talk about your awful taste in drink, if you prefer.”
Raiselig’s smile was one of obligation; practiced and insincere. “It is a complicated document.”
“Fine,” Calchona stood upright again, wiping the counter where she had rested. “If you ever want to explain it to me, my ears are always ready.”
“It is not that I do not wish to explain it,” Raiselig spoke before Calchona could turn away. “It is merely…involved. I do not understand all the implications myself, yet.”
“What is it?”
“It is many things,” Raiselig rested their fingertips on the parchment, gently, like a surgeon or sculptor. “But what it is the most, is precedent. I must understand all the implications, if I am to continue in my work.”
Calchona smiled. “Look at you. I never thought you’d make it out of the Settling alive, and now here you are, worried about being a good Scrivener.”
Raiselig looked down at the parchment. “We all had to change.”
“Excuse me, may I sit here?”
With the softest hiss, Calchona caught her breath. Raiselig looked up into the fresh smiling face of a young man, his hand gesturing towards the stool with the bowler hat.
Raiselig looked him up and down. He was tall, thin, too well-dressed for a regular of the House of the Horned Serpent. He didn’t smell right, either…Raiselig couldn’t quite place it…
For a moment, no one moved. Then, as quick as a whip, Raiselig snatched their hat from the seat and rested it on the bar.
The man needed no further acknowledgment. He sat with a flourish and grace that marked him more as a member of the aristocracy than any stitch of his clothing. That was the smell. The man is a Duke.
“Forgive me, my lady, but what are you drinking?”
Raiselig’s eyes flashed cold blue. “I am no lady.”
“No?” The duke faltered. “Ah, forgive me. In the gloom, your features are —”
“Here,” Calchona swept in, mug of ale in her paws. “A mug of penny-ale, my lord.”
“Your grace,” the Duke corrected, before flushing bright red. “Ah. Damnation, please, forgive me. Forget I said anything.” He smiled again. “I had intended to come incognito, but I’m afraid I am not well suited to not being a Duke.”
Raiselig didn’t answer, instead returning their attention to the document in front of them.
After a moment, the Duke tried again. “Yes, it’s true. I am his grace, the Duke Ruben Rensburg, of Rensburg province. Forgive my attempted deception, but I feared I might not be welcome had I come with full retinue and in fitting attire.”
“Everyone is welcome at the House of the Horned Serpent,” Calchona said, her tone firm, if cautious.
“Indeed?” Duke Rensburg smiled wide. “Perhaps, but I’m afraid I know many people who would be less than comfortable with the idea of me being here, whatever your welcome.” He turned back to Raiselig. “And so here I am.”
Raiselig could smell the desperation on the man, the twitch in his smile, the glint in his eye.
Again, the duke spoke through cracked lips. “I suppose you are curious why a man such as myself has chosen to stalk the dark alleys of Ad Adwazi? What could bring me to dress as a commoner to brave the shadows of such a dangerous place?”
“There is nothing dangerous here,” Raiselig reached out for their mug. “Save for those who seek more than is offered.”
The duke looked around then, his eyes seeking the dark corners and shadowy figures that leered out from behind their cups and cards. Gentle groans and soft whispers leaked from the edges of the room.
“Perhaps, your grace, you should speak your mind?” Calchona prompted.
“Ah,” Duke Rensburg cleared his throat. “Yes, yes of course. Forgive me. I have, indeed, come looking for you, good Scrivener. I have heard that you are, in fact, one of their illustrious number? Well, I have a need of your services, and from all who tell it, you are the best in the city.”
“Am I?”
“So it is said from the great ballrooms to the meanest gutter,” Duke Rensburg’s voice dropped low. “And I mean to hire the best for my needs. It is no minor ritual I must perform, no meager hedge-penny spell nor rite of spring-coming.”
Raiselig’s burning eyes flashed again. “Tell me, your grace, what is my name?”
The man’s face fell. “I beg your pardon?”
“What is the name of the best Scrivener in all of Ad Adwazi?”
A drop of sweat dangled from the edge of the Duke’s brow. “Yes, again, you have caught me out, wise Scrivener. Indeed, all that I have ever heard is that a Scrivener frequents this establishment, and while my need is great, it is even more urgent. I come to you in desperation. Please, good man, help me.”
“I am no man.” Raiselig took another drink. “This is no place for you. Wait outside, and I shall come after.”
The Duke stood up, his drink untouched, and gathered himself before speaking. “I…apologize if I have trespassed. Please, finish your drink at your leisure. I shall wait for you.”
The man turned and walked out of the House of the Horned Serpent, eyes locked on the floor before him, avoiding the glowing eyes in the darkness that followed him out.
When the door closed behind him, Raiselig downed the rest of their drink. Plucking their bowler hat from the bar, they placed it carefully on their head before moving to the dark shadows where a large wooden cabinet had sat, unnoticed for some time.
“Fool Duke,” Rasielig muttered as they pulled the heavy yellowwood chest onto their back, bending forward only slightly to balance the weight, “thinking only a pretty hat and cloak separates him from we shadow-folk.”
“We?” Calchona smiled, flipping her fleece behind her ears. “I have not heard you say as much for some time.”
Raiselig stared back. “I have never turned away from who I was.”
“Was? Or Are?” Calchona’s grin was kind, and thus crueler than her recrimination could have ever been. “Go on, little candle. Light the poor man’s way.”
Rensburg Manor lay far beyond the walls of Ad Adwazi, over many hills that rose and fell like crashing waves. Duke Rensburg rode on a haggard old horse that was barely strong enough to carry its rider. He rode as fast as he dared, yet whenever he turned his head, he could see the dark shape of the Scrivener behind him, the tall cabinet on their back waving in the distance.
Had they been born with wings it would have taken a full day to reach the Manor, and so the Duke had to stop many times to rest and feed both his horse and himself. When he did so, the Scrivener was always there, setting down the heavy wood cabinet without a groan or gasp.
It was during the third such rest that the Duke once more deigned to speak to his traveling companion, if companions they were. No sooner had he dismounted from his gasping steed than he heard the hard thud of the Scrivener’s cabinet hit the dirt behind him.
When he had finished tying the feedbag behind his horse’s head, he produced his own meal from the slim saddlebags, and sat himself down on a nearby log.
The Scrivener sat as well, waiting patiently to be on their way once more.
With a flourish befitting the finest peacock, Duke Rensburg doffed his broad-brimmed hat, the feather fluttering in the quiet breeze. After taking a deep pull from his wineskin, he handed it to the Scrivener, who simply shook their head.
This silence was no longer bearable, and so the Duke leaned back his head and spoke with a clear and proud voice: “Tell me, lord Scrivener, how do you find this land through which we travel?”
“I am no lord,” Raiselig spoke without meeting the Duke’s gaze. “The proper form of address is ‘your honor.’”
“Is it indeed?” The Duke made no apology. “And indeed, the proper address for a Duke is ‘your grace,’ yet I make no such demand of you. We are all nobility of a sort, are we not? What matters propriety to those such as us? See all around you? This is my domain. The Duchy of Rensburg, ruled over by my family for generations of Rensburgers. And I, the culmination of their lives’ work. Alas, likely to be last in the noble and glorious line.”
Raiselig made no response.
The Duke tore apart a small piece of dried meat with his teeth, chewed thoughtfully for a moment, and spoke once more. “Yes, a glorious line.”
There was silence for a moment more while the Duke studied his companion. She, or was it he, was tall and thin, dressed in simple black with a domed bowler hat. They stared at nothing, barely seemed to be breathing. “While you, Scrivener, are master of the law and ritual, the ancient magic of custom. Yes, who of us should bow to the other?”
Raiselig sniffed. “In a place of ritual or ceremony, it is fit that all bow to the Scrivener, for it is they who represent the law and it is the law which brings all to their place. When first meeting, if not in any place of ceremony, the Scrivener need not bow to anyone, nor be bowed to in return. In times and places where a Scrivener is bound by laws of etiquette, they are considered a ‘high servant,’ and given due deference and subject to due consideration.”
The Duke did not reply at first, then muttering, “Yes, of course you would know the answer. Forgive my glib tongue. Will you not eat? Come, share a bite with me, lest you starve before we reach my Manor.”
“I have eaten already today,” was the cold reply.
“Then we shall share company, if not food,” the Duke tried again. “I would dearly love to hear one of your many tales as a Scrivener. I can not help but dream of the wondrous stories you could tell.”
“Then dream you must,” the Scrivener barely moved. “No Scrivener will ever tell you tales fit for a campfire.”
Far overhead, a raptor called out. Wheeling about, the bird darted high and low in the winds as the Duke watched. “Then it must be me who fills the silence, for it must be filled. See above us, that dark and winsome shape? It is one of the many hawks that hunt my land. There was a time when my father took me hunting along the Duskill — that is what we call the hillsides which are shadowed first when dusk comes — and I claimed my first buck. A single rifle-shot it took, and though I sobbed at seeing so fine an animal fall to the ground, my father was so proud of me. So proud. I still remember the softness of the beast’s fur in my hands.”
The Duke lowered his head. “How odd, that I should I think of that now.”
Raiselig did not turn their head. Nor did they speak or make any sign of having listened to the Duke’s tale. He was grateful for that, for it was unbecoming for a Duke to be so forward with a stranger. For their part, Raiselig noticed how little the Duke ate, and how overgrown the road became as they traveled. The horse became slow and slovenly, urged onward by the Duke’s frantic prodding.
They slept that night off the gnarled road, under a tree of wet bark and sagging limbs. The Duke tried to rest, but his heart was fearful, and all he could see of the black-skinned Scrivener were their two glowing eyes, still and silent in the dark.
At long last, the Manor-house of Duke Rensburg loomed overhead. With aching back and exhausted limbs, the Duke urged his steed through the rusting gates and towards the dry and empty stables.
After divesting his ride of saddle and harness, the Duke left the stables to see his companion standing in the courtyard, as still and cold as slate.
“Please,” the Duke finally cracked open his mouth, “come inside.”
Such splendor lay within the Manor’s doors. Wall patterns of gold and green provided background to marble statues and suits of armor. Tapestries and paintings lined the walls, behind brass vases and silver urns. Wrought iron braziers held rocks of blackest coal, and bronze handles held seasoned torches, all unlit.
“Come,” the Duke gestured wide with welcoming hand, “We shall meet in the sitting room.”
Up and down the corridors they walked, Raiselig matching the Duke’s wide stride with ease. The Duke’s pace was nervous, the man clearly no braver for having found himself in his home.
At last they reached a room filled with plush and ornate upholstry. Chairs and couches filled the floor in front of a fireplace as large as a man. No sooner had they entered than the Duke ran for the corner and the small table which held a silver tray along with a single glass and bottle of thick whiskey.
“I shall pour you a drink,” the Duke proclaimed, filling the glass half-full of yellow-brown liquid.
Raiselig paid the Duke no mind, instead moving to the nearest chair and setting their wooden chest down on the threadbare carpet. With tender and gentle hands, they opened the doors of the cabinet and pulled from its depths a plank of wood, a sheet of pure vellum, and a single thin pencil, almost as thin as straw.
Placing the wood on their lap, Raiselig positioned the vellum at its center and readied the pencil at its top. Then, and only then, did Raiselig look up into the befuddled eyes of the Duke.
For a minute they stared at each other, the Scrivener’s hand ready to write, the Duke’s hand holding a glass out to be taken. Neither moved.
At last, the burning eyes bore trough the Duke’s steady gaze, and he brought the glass to his own lips.
“I have no boy to serve you,” he said.
The Scrivener did not reply.
“I have no maid to take your coat, though coat you do not wear. I have no manservant to fetch you food nor drink. I have no groundskeeper to keep the thorns from your cuffs as you walk down my path. Dust covers every crevasse in the Manor, every statue, every painting.”
“When I was a child, and my father was the Duke of Rensburg, We had seven servants in our service. When my father was a child, we had twenty. My grandfather, fifty. A hundred servants once walked these grounds alone, and that was nothing to the lands that lie beyond. Farmers, blacksmiths, and metalworkers brought wealth to our coffers. They were a proud people, proud to call themselves servants of the Dukes and Duchesses of Rensburg.”
Still the Scrivener made no move, said no word. The Duke drank again as he walked across the sitting-room floor, his hands gesturing to painting and statue as he passed. “Oh, how bitter was our decline. See here! And here! Oh, how I spit on their foolish games and careless manners.”
The Scrivener was silent. They had no concern for the Duke’s resentment.
At last, the Duke stopped in front of the largest painting in the room. Rimmed with a golden frame and carved with intricate and curving ivy, the stern and dour face of a man no older than the Duke himself stared out over the room. The Duke looked up at the man’s face, drinking slowly from his glass.
“This is where it all started. Generations ago, the land was given to my family by the High-topped King. A blessing, for my ancestor’s service in some war or other. Driven from the land, the invaders were, and so my family became stewards of this humble plot of glorious land.”
The Duke began to walk, slowly, along the walls of the sitting room, his eyes glazed. “With the Duchy came the title, and with the title, the duty. So my family tended to their property as best as any family could. Our servants toiled as the sun rose and fell, the land bore fruitful blessings and our people were happy.”
The Duke turned to face the Scrivener, his eyes burning. “This is our land, Scrivener. Do you understand the implications of that? There are the responsibilities that come with ownership of the land, of course, but so too are there the expectations. Every drought, every famine, every wandering band of animals and band of vagrants becomes your fault.”
Raiselig did not answer, only waited for the Duke to finish his speech.
“It is only right, after all. When a servant drops a tray, it is our duty to punish. When a horse throws its rider, they are whipped. When a mistake is made, justice is meted out with a firm and sometimes merciful hand. It is a difficult thing to know when to punish and when to praise, but this is the duty of the Lord.”
The Duke stopped at the carved marble bust of a young woman, whose glassy eyes and wan mouth sat lifelessly on a tall pedestal. “What can one do when the land itself turns on you? What punishment is fitting for the very land we own? A question that plagued my every ancestor, and now plagues me. Our every servant a traitor, our every pantry empty, our every field fallow…what path lies open to me now? The land, this mansion, these are my only possessions.”
Downing the last of his drink, the Duke turned with raised finger. “Am I a Duke, Scrivener? What is a horse without hoof and tail, or saddle and harness? What is a tree without leaf, branch, and root? What is a Duke without servants and fields of grain and fat pigs and hens ripe for slaughter? I ask you Scrivener, is it not custom that a Duke must have a Duchy?”
Raiselig, at last addressed a sincere question, nodded. The case-law surrounding the title of Duke and Duchess was extensive, though they decided not to pontificate on the myriad definitions and loopholes surrounding what a Duchy could be.
“And my ancestors, to a one, were Dukes and Duchesses all. A title, nay, a curse passed down through our family to the eldest born. A blood curse, is it not, Scrivener? Tell me true, I enjoin you as I now employ you, is not my title a blood curse laid upon my family by an ancient king? Is there not some mystic rite, some ritual I might partake in to break this horrid hex on my family?”
Raiselig raised an eyebrow at the suggestion. There were many similarities in the law of the land; the precedents that stretched back into the distant past were labyrinthine, and Raiselig had often considered the connections and similarities of the countless intertwining contracts.
But while the poets of the age could call a title what they wished, Raiselig did not have the luxury of laxity. The binding definitions of a curse were explicit, as were the specific characteristics of a title. “Your king or queen may take back what was given, you may be divested of your lands and title.”
“No!” The Duke slammed his glass down on a nearby table. “You ask for too much. We, my family, has lost everything through the years. Pieces of ourselves have been cut away by fortune and malice. I am the Duke of Rensburg, what am I without my land or title?”
“Then there is nothing I can do.” Raiselig stood up, placing their lap-desk and vellum back in the cabinet. “The cost and possession of your title and land are inexorably linked. I cannot free you from one without the other.”
The Duke’s head sagged. “I had thought as much, but I am not finished with you yet, Scrivener.” With a long stride, he crossed the room to another painting, a dour woman with dead eyes. “This is my grandfather’s grandmother’s grandmother. My ancestors were Dukes and Duchesses all, but she was also a powerful sorcerer. She cast mighty spells and enchantments without the need for a Scrivener. She signed her name to no contracts, and yet called for ghostly horses to pull her carriage, and shadow servants to serve her guests. She could summon the winds and the rains, and speak to beings beyond our land. She needed no contracts, she needed only a wand of oak and a ruby red.”
Raiselig stared at the picture. It stared back.
The Duke spun around to face Raiselig once more. “I found, quite by chance, a spell of hers caught between the pages of an ancient book in the library. A ritual of blood and magic before the Settling, when magic was raw. I think it will still work, it must work, it must.” The man muttered as he walked to a desk filled with dusty papers and tattered letters. Brushing the papers aside, he produced a thin scroll. running back to his seated guest, the Duke held out the scroll for perusal.
Raiselig studied its contents.
“Tell me truly, Scrivener, will this ritual work? A spell to summon the spirit of the land? I know that magic has changed since the Settling, and I know little of contract law, but surely if you notarize the spell, it would still function?”
Raiselig reached into their cabinet and produced six scrolls of precedent. The book of mercies followed after, and half an hour of study was all that they required to find an answer. “Yes. I will notarize this ritual.” They looked up from the scroll. “But to be notary, I cannot aid you in its performance. An arbiter must be separate and impartial; I cannot take the side of either vested party.”
“Yes, yes!” The Duke’s eyes lit bright. “I have studied the spell for many months, I require no aid in the ritual. Only your seal once the contract is signed.”
“Then I will observe, and arbitrate.” Raiselig replaced their scrolls and books before handing the scroll back to the Duke. “If you perform the ritual properly, and the spell is completed, I will seal the contract.”
“Excellent!” The Duke grabbed his glass once more, and poured another swallow from his bottle. “I have the place already prepared. We leave at once!”