Chương 319: Exploded

I kept both of them by my side for the time being, and not all of the people approaching me were as benign or copacetic. After all, this is still early days of the rebellion. In a month nobody is going to think twice about demanding that The Enemy keep to their side of the floor and respect the borders. In another month, events will be either Theirs or Ours. But while we're still escalating, we're all pretending that it's business as usual for now.

And that means that if I'm not going to be the scapegoat for escalating aggressions, I need to play nice. But that "play nice" only means "let the assholes walk up and talk to my face". Nobody's obligation to "play nice" involves real courtesy, good faith, or humane treatment. Nope, the only standard that really matters is whether we continue to abide by the structure of normal interaction, and not admit that we're all enemies already.

So that means that there is a whole progression of flunkies that think this permits them to talk to me however they like. Some Freckentop loyalist scooted through the lines and started giving me a piece of her mind, about my gall and my impertinence and my insolence. I gave her three minutes, two more than she deserved, and thanked her for her input, asked her to direct further discussion to my people, and dismissed her.

She dug in and decide to be difficult, with "and another thing-", but I did not feel compelled to humor her.

"Your time is up," I told her, and I was definitely rude about it. I mean, look, I was aware that a lot of people hate me. Honestly, my long term plans kind of depend on it. And I certainly do pick up enough rumors and spy reports to understand it thoroughly. Also, someone shot a poisoned crossbow at my face not long ago. So I do understand. But that doesn't mean that I want to hear about it all goddamned night when I'm supposed to be getting things done.

She decided that my time was better spent listening to her dress me down.

"You are are a base traitor to the kingdom and your liege, and I won't -" she said, and seemed to be building momentum again. I gave a nod to Larianne, and she took a step forward. The woman in Freckentop colors quailed back, and seconds later she was beating a retreat and all her defiant dignity was left in a puddle on the floor. I was amazed by this- by now, everyone must be aware that I'm a dangerous woman. Especially the people who are most interested in currying Freckentop favor.

I mocked the queen for being brazen enough to appear before me without her full retinue of guards. Last Fashion Week I blasted a man across four rows of seats and he would have died right there without my brother making an expert catch with the curtain. Everyone has to know I'm dangerous. But there's something about giving a nod to a lieutenant and having them step forward that represents a different level of intimidation. Maybe people assume that I'm not the type to do my own dirty work?

Or maybe it's just the little bit of extra theatricality you get from signaling an enforcer to take care of someone. I don't think that woman, who overstayed her three minutes of welcome, was sent by the royals. Most likely they had no idea who she even was.

I think this was just what happens when you make enough powerful enemies, a certain haze of enmity that hangs over everything, manifested in the person of various random folk who think that talking shit to you will earn them respect and protection from your powerful enemies. I've got enough controversy around me that I catch incidental collateral damage from minor players that think they can springboard their way into significance by pissing me off. And I can't even be mad at it.

Most of my current clout and fame got started by building a well-known vendetta against the king and queen. But after her was another, and another after that. People who needed to prove how brave and loyal they were by walking up to me and disrespecting me, relying on the current balance of the rules that let them confront me to my face confident that I won't respond violently. After the third one, I looked over at Larianne and Rabert. Petunia was busy a dozen yards away, resolving some sort of minor dispute.

"Larianne, Rabert. Guys, these fucking pikers keep rolling up and talking shit like I'm not gonna do something. Is this making me look weak? Am I making a mistake by letting them get away with it?"

"So far all they've done is walk up and start bitching," Larianne pointed out.

"If they had something to actually say, then maybe you could be asked to hear them out."

"You've heard three of them out, and I think that's a good cut-off," Rabert answered.

"More than that feels weak, less than that feels hasty. I think you picked a good time to cut them off." They both raised excellent points, the qualitative versus the quantitative, and they both supported the same conclusion. So, I will take that as a settled issue and change my behavior accordingly. In a better world, there would not be this many people that want to waste my time just to tell me how much they hate me. This is like the inverse of Newtown.

I gave the next one sixty seconds of "you should be ashamed" and "after everything they've given for this kingdom" and "should have let you rot in that prison" before I cut him off.

"Hey, is this going someplace or are you just venting your spleen?" Rabert glanced my way.

"Sorry?" I turned from the jackass over to glance at Rabert.

"It's an idiom. It means to express anger and displeasure." The jackass was undeterred.

"I will not be ignored by a child in school! You are a danger to this kingdom and when you get what-" I rolled my eyes.

"Right, this isn't going anywhere. Larianne, please vent his spleen." She glanced at me with eyebrows raised.

"Is that still an idiom?"

"Not this time," I said, nodding her towards the jackass. She raised her fingernails with a crackling sound, whenever she moved her hands there was a scent of ozone. She advanced on him, and he bolted. Like most people he did not want his spleen vented against his will.

"Thank you Larianne."

"This is just temporary," she pointed out.

"Until you get some decent guards for yourself."

"You're having fun," I reminded her. A server walked by with all our drinks lined up for us, but my ring was glowing so I waved the would-be murderer to keep moving on.

"I am, but I shouldn't get used to it," she said.

"Despite the fact that it is exactly what I have arranged here, it is considered bad form to take people's delegations and relatives as staff for your own house," Rabert pointed out.

"We're making an exception but you really cannot keep Countess Ebonder with you like this." I allowed myself to feel a little disappointed.

"Well, I suppose it's just as well that I've already figured out who I'm going to hire as my new security staff then," I said.

"As long as it's not those warriors from the big scene yesterday," Rabert said, shaking his head.

"You should never hire bodyguards that you originally met because they were trying to kill you. That rule feels so obvious that nobody should need it explained to them."

"They're fine, we've got an understanding now," I told him.

"Natalie, you have already proved that you don't need them," he explained patiently.

"This is not about an understanding, this is about competence. If you were able to escape their trap, survive their attacks and kill their employer, then you already should know that you need better bodyguards than that."

"And more than that," Larianne said, "you don't need fighters, you need watchers." Rabert saw a tray-carrying server headed our way and waved them on without even getting close.

"Exactly. Having a tough bodyguard is just a statement piece, a status symbol. An effective bodyguard is someone who is paying attention to the right things, far in advance, and hasn't been noticed yet. You want someone who sees all and is already dealing with the problems. And that requires talent, ability, and training. It's not something that comes from mana weapons, magic spells, or combat ability."

"Super. So do I just find an employment agency and ask them for the most observant people they have available? Is there a hiring service for this? Are there security companies that rent out bodyguards for long-term contracts? Or am I expected to already know these things?"

"Search me," Larianne said with a shrug. Rabert added his shrug to hers.

"Everyone I know that needs bodyguards already has them." I rolled my eyes, and implored the heavens for patience.

"Thanks, both of you. And what do we say about criticizing if we can't offer a solution?"

"It's fun?" she guessed.

"Noticing a problem does not make me responsible for fixing that problem on your behalf?" he added.

"Funny how Natalie assumes that it would though," she said to him.

"Explains a lot about her frame of mind, that she assumes perceiving a problem means you have to address the problem," he replied thoughtfully.

"I'm right here," I reminded them.

"I can hear you both, you know."

"And that's a perfect example of a problem that I don't have to address," he quipped back.

"Well, since competent bodyguards that meet your standards do not actually materialize on their own when one becomes controversial enough to need them, I'll have to figure this out for myself," I said, shaking my head in disappointment.

"Let me be the first to wish you good luck with that," Rabert said. See, this is what it means to have a ruthless love interest. The compassion does not flow freely from that one. After a while I did catch my footing again. Things started really awkward, between a stupid gaffe for my entrance, and then getting caught up in a crowd of attention-seekers, and then getting shot in the face, and then approached by a stream of haters that wanted to make their voices into my problems.

And then getting dunked on by my friends and love interests at the same time. I had intended to come into this party looking really cool and untouchable and powerful, with the plan that everyone would look at me as a rising military leader and political mastermind, bouncing back sharply from the wounded vulnerability of last night. But that did not work out for me on the first try. Sometimes I really do get some very cool moments and impress people. But it's not consistent. I've got work to do.

By the time we hit year four or five maybe I can be effortlessly polished and awe-inspiring at all times, but I'm okay with treating this as a work in progress. After all, if you're actually cool at sixteen years old, that means you're peaking early. Nobody who is cool at sixteen goes on to be even cooler later in life. On the positive side, I can still recover, and I do. After yet another grand-stander decides to try to make the new rebellion all about them-"Ladies and gentlemen!

As of now, the kingdom is in a state of revolt, and the people have-""Oh, shut up!" - everyone has rather forgotten about my tacky turn on the stage. Also, the crowd has continued filling in, and more and more of the people about were not present when I delivered a well-prepared badly-timed speech and then got shot in the face. So over a bit of time, the tenor of the room is shifted back in my favor.

I kept sending people around to take the temperature of the crowd, I wanted assessments of the mood and not just specific behaviors. Sure it's important to spy on enemies, but also to find out how favorable the climate is, the holistic overview. And as more and more people arrived, the balance of loyalties landed more definitely in our favor. After all, nine houses outweigh four by quite a bit.

And ours also comes with eleven Lesser Houses, and the greater bulk of the minor houses, even though those are barely represented here. Few of the minor houses have even a count at their head, so at a tightly-controlled event like this they have no voice at all. And while Freckentop has more than its fair share of high stations, they are definitely feeling the effects of being outnumbered by more than two-to-one here.

As the room filled out, my people percolated further out, Harigold colors could be seen in most of the clots and cliques of bodies. I imagine I've even got a handful of diehards that are trying to get within speaking distance of the Dominionists' house heads so they can spite them like theirs did for me. Probably more than a handful, the coalition I've formed has more than its fair share of the really unforgivably nasty houses.

The Dominionists mostly mingled among their own, Brunbling and Duskare and Eyellon and Freckentop all making a real show of solidarity, but they were getting pressed further and further into one corner of the room. I could not see this part for myself, but Petunia kept me up to date. She can just look across the room and see where the colors are distributed, watch the flow and movement of the factions just by eyeballing livery. Elevation is key to scouting.

Through my ring, I could see that Nathan was busy in the backstage dressing rooms, letting out every dress he had taken in just yesterday. Every seam and hem needed to be let out, but fortunately most of them were largely kept together with safety pins. Those were easier to adjust on the fly. The rest was more trouble for him: adjusting seams was not a simple process and he had made things more difficult for himself.

Chiffon, georgette, batiste, tuille- these were a top-down who's-who of fabrics that fray badly and don't take alterations well. His models were doing their best, but the clothes looked distinctly worse than they did yesterday. He had more mistakes to cover up, more damage to compensate for, and the fabric was unforgiving. All those floofy poofy fripperies he had made central to his design all had the same flaw: they were fussy little bastards. I don't sew, and I don't really spend a lot of time discussing it.

My social circles don't really overlap with people who sew or do needlecrafts. And when I do visit my dressmaker, we rarely discuss textiles more than a few minutes before we move to strategy. On the other hand, essence affinity does necessarily come with a fair amount of intuitive understanding of the materials. Nathan has only the understanding that he took from his interrogations with Gharie, which I don't think takes the place of real training or experience.

If it had, he would not have tried making clothing basics out of decorative fabrics. Most crafts and skills look a lot easier from the outside, and trying new things without understanding the fundamentals means you'll never anticipate the mistakes you make. Sure, I sabotaged his show. But he gave me all the tools to do it. If he'd used linen, worsted, even gabardine, he'd be just fine right now.

More importantly, if he had taken the time to make more than one copy of the dress, he would be in better shape right now. And it's going to get worse before it gets better. After all, he's got a week-long show, and the models he's using now can only participate on the weekends. He's got fill-in models for school nights. More adjustments.

The other designers are using professional models, not volunteer Academy students, because they want to use the same model for the whole show, because they don't want to make adjustments between shows. Anyone can make a mistake, even my brother. And if I pay attention, I can make him pay for every mistake he makes. Ushers move through the crowd, and I slip my ring back onto my finger. I join the stream of people strolling towards the seating arrangements, all of us sifting in at a comfortable pace.

The royals had taken back their front-row-center seating, unfortunately; they had put their reservations in very early and had put down a lot of extra reserved tents around to claim most of the optimal real estate for themselves. They had not only learned from last time not to give me a chance to snatch those seats, but they had doubled down to push me further to the periphery. I'm fine with that.

After all, their efforts to push me out of the center just calls more attention to the fact that I beat them to it last night. The smart play here would be to take their normal seats and act like nothing was amiss, pushing back this hard just makes them look insecure. Now we just get to sit through another boring fashion show, with even less to look forward to before. I should start skipping the actual presentations and just go get something to eat from a late-night place.

Surely there's not a rule about hanging around for the social intrigue and skipping the part where self-congratulatory troglodytes announce that they have the gospel word on upcoming fashion trends. And that's when some asshole impaled me with a diamond-tipped spike. I lurched, and looked down, I watched my blood dripping off the glittering blade that had passed right through me from back to front.

And through that haze of crimson, I could see glowing lines on the weapon: sigils that glowed magma-red through the layer of blood. The thing was still lodged inside my body when it exploded.