I believe the Commissioner has arranged for my failure.
Each and all of my meetings with the Young Miss included a barrage of questions that serve no practical purpose or security insight. That the Young Miss insists on answers makes my position much more precarious. The Commissioner’s directive not to discuss my origins, nor his illicit and illegal business practices, provides what Fred calls “opportunities for creative communication” that are not within my areas of expertise.
The Commissioner dispatched no SECAs for any tasks after his return, despite only half of us being restricted to duty on the property. Four’s theory that the Commissioner gained a modicum of empathy for our safety gains no favor from Three nor Fred. Similarly, the Commissioner’s newfound interest in maintaining a pretense of compliance with Quinlanti’s construct utilization regulations seems more relevant to his own protections than ours.
My classmates and I completed much of Five’s restoration when we were not being beckoned to the manor for one introduction or another. The result falls short of my standard for form, but Five is pleased with its functionality; I suppose Five’s satisfaction matters most. I passed my discoveries along to my classmates to the best of my abilities.
That the Commissioner forced us to accelerate our efforts in order to watch finely-dressed folks exchange redundant pleasantries confounds me.
Not a single one of the guests for this post-marriage feast wields or conceals a weapon. I can only hope that such caution is the Commissioner’s intended effect; if it is not, monitoring this event is a pointless exercise in showcasing the Commissioner’s power.
I stand behind my new charge’s seat at one end of the banquet hall. The wedding party sits on the same side of the table to overlook the rest of the guests. The Heir and his five closest companions, all of whom wear suits of subdued red and gold, sit on the right half. One stands upright behind the Commissioner at the first seat on the end. The bride has incorporated the Young Miss into her half of the table; therefore, I stand flanked by strangers wearing pale orange and gold. The Young Miss, herself, does not seem particularly affectionate of her much older seatmates.
Yet another set of guests, a male and female swiffok pair with dark brown skin and slightly darker suits, converses with the bride and groom at the center of the table. They seem ordinary for swiffoks: each are just over half the size of the average human, with the slightly denser musculature of their dwarven ancestors. They have facial features much like human children, despite their advanced age, and slightly pointed ears like their gnomish cousins. They are the apparent definition of a non-threat.
This exchange seems more cordial, but less coerced, than many that came before. Regardless, they, too, will file down the bride’s side of the table with markedly more or less enthusiasm which they exerted with the groom’s side. Because the attendants-of-honor sit at the outermost positions of the table, these guests, too, will confront the gauntlet of insipid conversations to its end rather than risk social derision by departing the table immediately, thus disgracing the bride’s and groom’s most intimate companions. The display approaches deception.
I expect the swiffoks’ interactions to be more positive with the bride’s party than with the groom’s. When they finally detach from the bride and groom, I am proven correct. Once they reach the Young Miss, though, their collective demeanor falters. They are unfamiliar to me; I believe that the Young Miss’s being a member of the Heir’s family, rather than any connection to the Commissioner’s secret, dampens these guests’ excitement.
The male swiffok bows slightly. “What a pleasure to see you again, Miss DiRossi. That certainly was a splendid ceremony, yes?”
The Young Miss gathers the hem of her gold wool stole in one matching-gloved hand and dutifully reaches out with the other. “I agree, Mr. Brewer. How do your children and grandchildren fare?”
Mr. Brewer chuckles, then clasps her hand and pats it. “They fare quite well, overall, thank you. My littlest one’s littlest one caught a touch of the pine flu a week ago, but he should recover—”
The swiffok’s companion puts her hand on his shoulder. Her eyes dart up to, and just as quickly from, my face. “My brother will jaw on about the family forest all night if you give him half a chance. It’s good to see you’re well—”
She whips her hands out to take the Young Miss’s hand from her brother.
I lean forward and focus onto the swiffok’s outstretched hands. I search for any device or weapon I may have somehow missed.
She stops short of the Young Miss’s fingers and recoils from me. The Young Miss and her neighbors lurch back in their seats, as well.
Only Mr. Brewer seems unaffected by my reaction. He puts one arm around his sister’s shoulder and looks up at me.
“Forgive Doris, please. She had a poor encounter with a simpler, gem-cutting construct when we were children in Tir Farrey. She meant you no offense.”
I return to my position, silent. This is not the first such reaction I have faced, not even tonight. I am certain it will not be the last.
The Young Miss places a hand on my side. She speaks with an audible smile to the swiffoks and her human seatmates.
“Please, don’t worry about him. He takes his job very seriously, you understand. I apologize for the confusion, Mr. Brewer, Mrs. Silverfold. I do hope both of you enjoy the remainder of your evening!”
The swiffoks bid farewell with mixed cordiality and walk away. The women around us compose themselves. The Young Miss twists in her chair and looks up at me.
Her face had been an unadorned and uniformly warm chestnut color in all our previous meetings. For the ceremony, it is coated in a fine layer of subtly colored powders that make her eyes seem larger and bluer. The basic structure of her face seems slightly altered so that her cheekbones stand out as slight points on her otherwise elliptical outline.
“Judah,” she whispers urgently.
I find the name that the Young Miss has given me an insufferable reprimand for an unperformed slight. She said she considered the matter seriously, “for days” beyond her initial deadline. I find such consideration unlikely.
“Can you please try to relax? We’re all here to enjoy ourselves and celebrate. You know as well as I do that there’s no threat to be found here.”
“Your father assigned me to your protection for a reason. I must not perform my duty inadequately.”
The Young Miss hums. “You and your classmates are the best at what you do, right?”
“Am I to take your compliment as an attempt to flatter me?”
She covers her mouth, but fails to stifle her giggle. “You can, if you’d like.”
“As I have the option, I decline your flattery.” I return my focus to the banquet hall.
She slouches. “What I mean to say is that you can stand to walk around, maybe mingle a little.” She sits up straight. “Your vision goes all around, right? You can still see me if you work the room some.”
I focus on the Young Miss. “How would I work the room some?” I repeat in an effort to gain some insight into the strange request.
The Young Miss rolls her head from one side to the other. “Just walk around, talk to people? Find out their hobbies or their stories?”
“You would like an in-depth threat assessment of your family’s guests?”
She sighs. “Yes, that’s fine.”
I turn, thankful for the opportunity to perform a real task. Before I escape her reach, the Young Miss sits up and places her hand on my arm.
“No, wait, no, not at all!”
I turn to the half-seated child grasping my forearm. “Why do you insist on frustrating me?”
“You’re certainly one to talk about—” The Young Miss breathes deeply and closes her eyes. She sits forward in her chair.
I return to my previous position. Servers in white smocks and black trousers walk down the wedding party path to collect the used dishes. I see no sense in wandering the reception hall in a fruitless search for an imaginary threat.
“I have an idea, Judah.”
I restrain the urge to divulge my thoughts on my bestowed moniker. “What is it, Young Miss?”
She shudders almost imperceptibly. “Why don’t you have a talk with Teresa or Janet? I’m certain either one would be willing to share performance notes, or…hmm, threat assessments.”
“Janet” and “Teresa,” One and Three, respectively, have yet to leave the sides of their assigned charges. Rather than allow the Young Miss to exercise her whims on my classmates, the Matron followed her lead and gave them names herself. One accepted the designation without protest, but Three was disgusted by the prospect that anyone would attempt to override its identity. Three agreed to a name if, and only if, Three was allowed to approve the choice.
Apparently the Young Miss is craftier than Fred’s stories of human children would indicate, but to what end? Is she playing a game with me? If this is a ruse of some kind, do I choose to walk into it? As bound as I am to remain near her, the offer to tear myself away from the utter inanity of this presentation table appeals to me.
I straighten my posture. “I will go to my classmate for a situation report. After we exchange information, I will return to my post. I will maintain surveillance of you throughout this period. Do you understand, Young Miss?”
She recoils. I believe she does not like the title, yet she seems to have no sympathy for my own discomfort.
“That sounds fine to me.”
I maneuver around tables and standing guests to reach the round table nearest the Commissioner. There, Three stands directly behind the Matron, who sits with the Coordinator, the Young Sir, the Cadet, and the Cadet’s romantic partner. The party wears various combinations of red and gold. I stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Three to bring the Young Miss back into focus; new guests have approached her table.
Three keeps her attention on the center of the room. “Has the Young Miss challenged your expertise so soon?”
“I have heard no incendiary words spoken against the Heir, his bride, or the family in whole or particular. I have not yet detected any hidden threats. Should I suppose a similar level of inactivity regarding your surveillance?”
“The guests all seem to have left their weapons at their homes and enjoy themselves in earnest.” Three focuses on me. “Surely you have not abandoned your post simply to trade notes regarding the monotony of our new assignment?” Three resets its position.
I glance from the Young Miss to the end of the groom’s table and back. “Of course, I have not. I was given a task by my charge, and I am fulfilling it.” After a short pause, I add, “I also welcome the opportunity to avoid the insufferable banalities of this assignment.”
A trio of humans approaches the Matron’s table. The older man with copper-colored skin, short black hair, and a nervous disposition catches most of both mine and Three’s attention. His similarly-aged female companion has lighter brown skin, but longer silver-streaked hair gathered in a bun. The third member, clearly their offspring, is a man likely the Heir’s age with close-cut hair from his jaw to the top of his head. They all wear blue-and-white suits, although the youngest member displays more flair than formality.
In the explosion of inane chatter between her offspring and the visitors, the Matron, who had been jovial throughout the evening, falls terse and cordial. Before long, the visiting woman leaves to converse with the Commissioner; the men follow, the younger before the elder, shortly afterward.
“I regret that the Matron…” Three pauses. “I regret that Talia did not send me to your position first.”
“Your charge wants you to use her given name, as well? Does the Commissioner’s family follow no protocol?”
“She deals only in the margins of the Commissioner’s work.” Three says casually, despite our already hushed conversation. “She sees no need to rely on, as she says, ‘his insistent use of codes, protocol, and innuendo’. The shift in etiquette is... not altogether unsatisfactory.”
I have no response.
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