Gloria Fidelis: Chapter One

[agkamerer]

Milagros Disraeli stared dumbfounded at the deep crimson banner that hung from the edge of the Marquis’ pedestal. Around the chamber, fifty other red banners hung, contrasting fifty more of palest blue. Of them all, Disraeli stared only at the Marquis’ banner; up on the dais, the Prime Minister was speaking, but Disraeli’s ears were dead to the words. His attention was devoted entirely to the banner, as if by force of will or disbelief he could make its crimson bleed into azure.

“My Lord Disraeli, you are shaking,” whispered a concerned voice. Patrick Burrows, his manservant, touched his arm; the contact jarred Disraeli back into reality, and his agape mouth snapped shut into a half-snarl.

“Damn the cogheaded bastard!” he spat, voice low enough that only Patrick might hear. “He wounds me, Patrick. After all my attentions to his interests, he stabs at my heart!”

“Who, my lord?”

“d’Etiene!” Disraeli nearly jabbed an accusing finger at the Marquis, but recognition of the bad form of such a gesture arrested his arm. Instead, he pierced the man with his eyes; across the chamber, the Marquis’ back was turned—d’Etiene chatted flippantly with the Duke of Essington, oblivious to Disraeli’s murderous gaze.

“But…my lord, the vote was very close,” Patrick began; he spoke slowly, as if trying to find the words that would least offend his master. “Could not any other lord have swayed the vote? Why direct your anger at the Marquis?”

“For the trap he lured me into! What were his protests against the lack of governance of the Inkwells if not a show of support for one willing to step up to the task? And yet, when I volunteer, he crushes me beneath his boot! It is a personal attack.”

Disraeli thrust a hand into the pocket of his coat, fingering the small lump of silvery arcanum he kept there. It had a comforting, silky texture, and he could feel its power tingling at his fingertips—it would be a simple matter to call that energy up and bend it to crush the Marquis, to snap some key artery in the man’s body or perhaps conjure up a conflagration to consume him. Rationality chased away his will to perform such a feat: the dampening rods set into the walls of the Parliamentary Chamber would absorb any magic cast in the vicinity anyway, and assaulting the Marquis so openly would do nothing to further his plans.

He turned on his heel, and marched towards the great double doors of the chamber; Patrick hurried after him. Disraeli reached the doors, grasped the brass handles, and flung them open, but before he could exit, a voice called out to him from behind.

“Milagros!”

Disraeli cringed, but squared his shoulders and put on a diplomatic smile when he turned. Valentin d’Etiene was walking towards him, his lacquered cane tapping lightly on the polished floor. The Marquis was a tall man, a trait only enhanced by the heels of his boots. The silver buckles on his shoes gleamed in the light, and the cut of his blue frock coat drew attention to broad shoulders and a well-physiqued frame. In his early forties, his face was just learning the lines of middle-age: he appeared the height of fashion and distinguishment. His hair, long and straight, had faded to a silvery color, and was tied at the back with a ribbon, blue, like the color of his eyes.

Side by side, Disraeli and the Marquis contrasted sharply: where d’Etiene was vibrant, Disraeli was dour—his coat was of the finest black wool, trimmed with dark crimson at the cuffs and collar, with two vertical rows of brass buttons along the front, but it lacked the finer details that frequented the coats of his colleagues. Though younger than the Marquis, deep lines pulled Disraeli’s lips into a sort of perpetual frown that made even his smiles seem sarcastic; the sharpness of his chin was accented by sideburns that curved along his jawline. His hair was as dark as his coat, and cut short: he was not one to honor the fashion of long locks.

“Marquis,” Disraeli inclined his head at the other man’s approach. Patrick stepped into an attendant position behind his master, hands clasped behind his back.

“Milagros, I have come to extend an invitation to you–”

“Regretfully, I am otherwise engaged,” Disraeli interjected dismissively.

“Oh, come now! You’ve not even given me the opportunity to tell you the occasion.” If the Marquis was aware of Disraeli’s darkened mood, he chose to ignore it, and pressed on with a smile. “Tomorrow, Essington has invited us to tea on his new dirigible. I know how much you enjoy flying. Do come. It will take the sting out of this nasty legislative business.”

Disraeli stared at the Marquis for a quiet moment. In his pocket, his hand tightened on the arcanum stone. He wanted to call the Marquis out, challenge him to a duel; men had dueled over smaller quarrels in the past. But magical duels were forbidden, and the Marquis was both a better shot with a pistol and more comfortable with a sword than he. No, he would deal with this less directly. He tried to make his smile appear as genuine as possible.

“Of course. I will do my best to attend,” he replied sweetly, then turned to leave again.

“Please, Milagros, don’t be sour. Her Majesty wishes that the Inkwells be left alone until Dr. Padget has finished researching them.”

“The Queen is mad, Valentin!” Disraeli snapped, cutting his eyes back towards the Marquis. Of course she was. It was Disraeli’s magic that muddled the woman’s brain and kept her from interfering too much with his maneuvering in Parliament. The old woman was not much of an issue, but the more steadfast of her supporters – apparently, the Marquis included among them – posed a stumbling block for him.

The outburst had drawn attention to the pair, and Disraeli glanced past the Marquis at the eyes looking in their direction. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly. Calm. This was a mere obstacle, and one he would overcome in due time. He had been patient thus far; a singular defeat was no reason to allow momentary anger to destroy all his plans. He opened his eyes much more composed.

“My apologies, Marquis. I am feeling ill, and I believe it has left me irritable. I will see you tomorrow,” he said. He bowed, then turned and left the chamber, leaving d’Etiene staring after him. Patrick trotted quietly beside him. Disraeli stormed past clerks and pages, down the steps of the Parliament building, and out into the cool air of the street. It was early evening, and the sun had begun to dip into the horizon; soon, the ethercloud would begin its dance in the heavens.

Disraeli’s carriage arrived – Patrick had informed the driver earlier of their impending departure – and Patrick opened the door. Disraeli climbed in, and Patrick followed, sitting across from his master. It was dark and cool inside the carriage, and as the driver pulled away, the wooden wheels clattering on the cobblestone street, Disraeli leaned his forehead against the glass window. He was quiet for a long time.

“Bring me Corvus,” he said finally.

“Sir, I’m afraid Master Gilchrist is in Gaul at the moment,” Patrick replied. Disraeli’s head snapped up.

“Bring him to me!” he shrieked, then let his head fall against the window again; his head ached, and he rubbed his temple with two fingers, trying to massage away the throbbing.

“Yes, my lord,” Patrick said meekly.
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Gloria Fidelis: A Steampunk Fantasy