The Dirrium nobility act : The Solvent's realization
The Solvent's Silence
The air in the Viscountess's main warehouse was thick, but not with the usual scent of raw silk. It smelled of ozone and stagnant air. Viscountess Mishima stood before a mountain of crates, her face pale, her knuckles white as she gripped her fan.
"What do you mean, it won't open?" she hissed at her head foreman.
The man, a burly veteran of the trade routes, was sweating despite the cool morning. He pulled at the iron latch of a crate, his muscles straining. The latch didn't budge. It looked as though it had been fused into the wood by a master blacksmith. Worse, his own palms were stained with a faint, silvery sheen from the Aether-Glass Varnish.
"It's like the air turned to stone, My Lady," the foreman grunted. "We tried saws. We tried chisels. The metal teeth just... slide off. We can't ship the silk if we can't get it out of the boxes. And the warehouse doors... they're sticking."
Mishima reached out and touched the wall. The varnish, which she had ordered sprayed on the interior to "preserve the structure," felt slick and unnaturally cold. She tried to pull her hand away, and for a terrifying second, her skin resisted. A thin, translucent web of mana-bonded resin stretched between her fingers and the stone.
She ripped her hand back, gasping. "Send for the solvent. Now! Use the emergency reserves Leornars provided."
"We did, Excellence," the foreman whispered, his voice trembling. "The barrels are empty. We used the last of it yesterday on the loading docks. We sent a courier to Lord Leornars's estate three hours ago for the new shipment."
"And?"
"He returned with a note. Lord Leornars is... 'deeply indisposed' with an audit."
Leornars was not indisposed. He was sitting in a high-backed chair in his study, watching a series of tiny, glowing glyphs on a floating projection. Each glyph represented a lock on Mishima's estate. One by one, they were turning red.
"The bonding process is 98% complete," Stacian reported, leaning against the doorframe. "The Silt-Pass is effectively a graveyard of sealed boxes. The Northern Empire's merchants are already at the gates, screaming about breach of contract."
"Predictable," Leornars murmured, not looking up from his book. "Mishima's reputation is her only currency. Without the ability to deliver, she is less than a common beggar. She is a debtor to the Crown."
A frantic pounding echoed from the manor's heavy front doors.
"That would be her," Zhyelena rasped, appearing from the shadows of the corner. "She didn't even use a carriage. She ran through the streets. Quite a sight for the commoners to see a Viscountess with disheveled hair and varnish-stained silk."
"Let her wait," Leornars said. He turned a page. "Five minutes of anxiety is worth a decade of loyalty."
When Mishima was finally ushered into the study, she didn't walk; she stumbled. The regal mask had shattered. Her hands were wrapped in bandages to hide the silver stains.
"Leornars!" she gasped, clutching the edge of his desk. "The varnish... something is wrong with the formula! It's consuming the warehouse. My men are trapped, their skin is bonding to the tools—the trade is paralyzed! I need the solvent. All of it!"
Leornars looked up slowly, his expression one of mild, academic concern. "An 'anomaly,' Viscountess? How distressing. I believe I mentioned the possibility in Section 4 of our agreement."
"I don't care about the agreement! Fix it!"
"I'm afraid it isn't that simple," Leornars said, standing up. His seven-foot frame cast a long, suffocating shadow over her. "The solvent is incredibly expensive to produce. To clear your entire estate would cost... roughly four million gold pieces. More than the value of your entire Silk-Pass."
Mishima's breath hitched. "I don't have that. You know I don't!"
"I know," Leornars said, walking around the desk. He stopped inches from her, his gaze cold and piercing. "Which leaves us with a mathematical imbalance. Your debt to the Northern Empire will ruin your family name. Your debt to me will cost you your soul."
He pulled a new document from his vest. Not a trade deal, but a Contract of Total Administration.
"Sign this," Leornars commanded softly. "I will assume all liabilities for the Mishima estate. I will provide the solvent and 'manage' your trade routes. You will remain the face of the family. You will keep your titles, your dresses, and your wine."
"And what do I lose?" she whispered, her voice breaking.
"Your will," Leornars replied. "You will vote in the High Council as I dictate. You will open your borders to my 'cargo' without inspection. You will be the puppet, and I will be the strings."
Mishima looked at the silver pen he held out. It glinted in the light, looking remarkably like the varnish that was currently swallowing her livelihood. She looked at Stacian, who watched with the detached hunger of a predator, and Zhyelena, who offered a wry, tired smile.
She had no choice. She took the pen. Her hand shook so violently she had to use both to sign her name.
"Excellent," Leornars said, snatching the paper before the ink was even dry. He didn't offer her a hand up. He didn't offer comfort.
He turned to Stacian. "Send a single barrel of solvent to the Silt-Pass. Just enough to open the main gates. We wouldn't want her to feel too free just yet."
He looked back at the broken noblewoman.
"Go home, Viscountess. Wash your hands. I'll be by tomorrow to tell you what your new opinions are."
As she scurried out, Leornars sat back down and picked up his tea.
"You know, Stacian," he said, the corner of his lip curling into that ephemeral, chilling smile. "I've always found that the best way to lead a lady is to make sure she has nowhere else to step."