Hunters and Prey, Pride and Shame
“Our fine little war fills our coffers with each passing moon.” Empress Lishok regarded her spymaster from behind hooded eyes. She reclined across a silk-cushioned couch, her fingers playing lazily along the crystal lip of her wine glass. A fan of great feathers, their colors a riot of hues from deep emerald to a near-black purple that matched her gossamer robe, stirred the sultry air. “Why is it then,” she continued with thinly-veiled anger, “we have nothing to show for our efforts?
“Is it truly impossible to find some greedy, self-preserving member of our three dukes’ houses to subvert? Are there truly no such wretches to be found in all our lands?” She arched her brows and met Nîshilrôc’s gaze. “Truly now, I find such a consideration beyond the pale of belief. And my husband the Emperor soon to return in triumph and glory and I have nothing of equal grandeur to offer. How can this be, Spymaster?”
For his part, Nîshilrôc sat across from the Empress meeting her bilious questions with calm resolve. An equanimity honed by many such encounters held over the past five years and more that His Majesty, Emperor Morgrik, had been campaigning against the Confederation of Southern Isles, leaving the empire’s management in his wife’s capable if ever ruthless hands. The spymaster was more than equal to matching the Empress’ steely purpose in crushing all who opposed their vision of a new imperial millennium ruled by House Mordôl.
“When His Majesty returns,” Nîshilrôc’s voice sounded terse against the Empress’ indolent complaint, “a most excellent scheme . . . schemes in fact . . . will be in place, Your Grace.” A hard smile split his angular face lending him a certain predatory mien, like a weasel in the hare’s hole. “Our efforts to suborn through simple greed are doomed. Have been from the very first. Again, that has been our purpose. To distract, keep our enemies busy and seemingly successful in their efforts to thwart our designs.
“No, Your Grace.” Nîshilrôc leaned forward bracing his arms across silk encased thighs. “Our true weapon, our poisoned needle held hidden at their throats, will come from inside each duke’s circle of closest intimates.”
Lishok frowned, her fingers’ languid dance across the crystal’s smooth surface suspended. “Not a particularly unique approach. Surely all three keep a keen eye upon those closest to them. How does that very succinct adage go? Keep your friends close and your family even closer, yes?”
The fan’s efforts sent gentle ripples along her robe’s loose folds revealing the Empress’ still lithe and vigorous form. There was nothing gentle in her expression, her ire flashing like blue ice as her gaze pinned itself to Nîshilrôc’s satisfied expression. His look annoyed her which only stoked her ill mood.
“And better advice was never spoken for those who strive to rule.” He nodded. “I believe the seeds to our scheme’s success are in the correct assessment of certain disaffections, certain . . . hurts, if you will, and in the application of the proper balms.
“Ambition and pride are easily pricked, and may turn septic without that they are tended to with gentle persuasion. Our efforts up to now have been to allow the natural scrapes and bruises to build between them, even to exacerbate them, while keeping each duke’s attention more upon us and our altogether unexceptional intrigues. Unexceptional except in their number. Our enemies have been awash in countering our many plots. So awash that they have indeed neglected those amongst them who have cause to feel slighted and diminished. A stronger pull towards self-advancement than mere greed by far for the proud and mighty.”
Leaning ever so slightly forward, a keen interest evident in her eyes, Empress Lishok asked, “And have you found such disaffection within House Ishdôc?” A whisper of skepticism soured her words.
“Within Duke Krazûk’s house?” Nîshilrôc’s voice accepted his mistress’ doubt. “No, Your Grace. But Houses Kzàcok and Azhòk offer all that we seek. And,” a feral grin touched his hard expression, “with the proper balm, both should bring House Ishdôc down as surely as if it were the Duke’s own hand did himself to death.”
Lishok leaned back, relaxing deep into the soft cushions and drained the last of her wine. “Tell me what you are plotting, Spymaster.”
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