Stories of the South/No. 1
The wind-whipped Château des Fleurs, which was a fine example of Lumisian architecture, especially that stemming from the Corcois traditional architecture, stood directly upon the Beaumont hill overlooking the Mer de Verre, the shining jewel of the Lumisian layer of Beauport, where the Corcois battled the Verdant Jungle at the edges of society and held a trading network amongst the towns that enriched themselves by the bay of the Mer de Verre. The château itself was a prize to behold, the centuries-old stony exterior wall hiding behind it a keep of rock housing the residence of the Baron Pierre de Loire of Bergerac and his family. Beside the keep lay a lighthouse standing at the precipice of a cliff over the Mer de Verre, in an effort to spare the sailors on the Sea of Glass a fate crashing into the jagged, toothy rocks that lay where the sea met the land below the shining beacon. Hemming the walls of rock was an expansive vineyard, owned by the noble vintner employed by the House of Loire of the Duchy of Somme, which overarched the barony of Bergerac and in its expanse also included the baronies of Rousseau and Vercourt. A single soil track which became paved with cobblestones as it approached the château pierced the vineyard's grounds, connecting the aloof court of the baron with the down-to-earth merchant town of Acord, which had at that point established itself as a conduit for the trade of the famous Luciere recipe of wine which the noble vintner of Loire was always proud to pronounce he had invented. This path passed around the scenic yet smooth Beaumont hill which had long ago eschewed the usage of trees in general, instead opting for a form of intense gardening and landscaping paid for by the baron of Bergerac in an attempt to shape the hill into a mimicry of the upper layers, perhaps out of the admiration of the prosperity of the vineyards of Cours, just above Beauport.
Acord sat on a flat coastline along the Mer de Verre with none of the sloping geography of the Château des Fleurs; the town in fact lay in danger of sinking into the somewhat uncertain sodden silt below the dry topsoil covered with an array of houses, docks, and cobblestone paths, the latter of which form a networked web through the town that directed the pedestrians traveling through the town who walk next to the carriages of those with more money. The town itself possesses a kind of inherent heartbeat, albeit a slow one, with the beat being guided by the rhythm of nature in tandem with humanity drawing itself in and out; the tide drew in and out, the sea haar drew in and out, and the merchant ships drew in and out. On the average day, Acord teemed with life, from merchants doing business with entrepreneurial townsfolk on the docks to the peddlers standing on corners loudly announcing the practicality and usefulness of their products as compared to all the other folks doing exactly the same thing. On this particular day in early 1681 AN, however, the town encapsulated opposing forces marking it as being "abuzz" with news, yet was also incredibly quiet and still. The early morning haar had settled on the varied pinnacled and sloped roofs of the buildings making up the skyline of Acord, causing a slight rain of condensation to small rivets of water to flow through the streets and making a slight racket in the gutters.
The puddles and small streams of the drenched streets were briefly disturbed by the footsteps of a hooded figure hurrying out of the town and up the road toward the Château des Fleurs, moving with progressively more fervor as they walked, as if the general spirit that presided over Acord had animated to chase off the interloper that had disturbed the slumber of this sleepy morning. Soggy parchments lined the buildings the figure passed, strategically placed so as to attract a good portion of attention by the local newspaper, depicting the image of a man with a grizzled beard, loudly proclaiming their headlines reading "Le Gardien de la Balise est Mort!, showing a kind of grim enthusiasm in the murder that had taken place just the previous night, not allowing a single cycle of the grand light-show in the sky to pass before giving in to a desire to profit off of the young man's death.
The figure paid these announcements little heed, as they had already received word from a higher source about the death of the Beacon's keeper, as well as a formal summons to apparently participate in the investigation. One could deduce the figure's confusion on this subject from a mere glance at their face, which bore an expression of befuddlement that seemed for all the world to be permanently affixed to their face. Clearly, one might say, they perceived themselves to be out of their element, and they were wondering who could possibly see them as to be useful! These assumptions would of course be correct, as the figure began displaying their agitation and nervousness even past their overexaggerated expression and into their physical mannerisms as they rounded the swirling path up the Beaumont hill. Up here, the haar had not penetrated every sodden fibre of material on the surface, but was instead replaced by howling gales and the piercing shriek of wind whistling through the hilly plane of grass as it ascended up above subsea level.
The figure arrived at the ivy-clad gates of the vineyard serving Château des Fleurs, a large, polished padlock dangling from the gate, standing defiantly sturdy. The figure sighed in annoyance, though their repressed feeling crept into their breath, resulting in a more stuttered sounding sigh. They stared around at the bricked perimeter of the vineyard, briefly allowing a fanciful contemplation of climbing the wall if only to arrive at their appointment on time, but this criminal thought was quickly stamped out with fervor. Instead, the figure knelt at a small, intricately wrought shrine beside the vineyard gate depicting the Amarvinist god of joy, Thûne, in the midst of a glorious celebration, holding his wine glass high for offerings. A sudden bout of piety struck the figure and they retrieved a handful of silvered fleurette coins, the internal currency of Lumis, and carefully placed them in the shrine’s gilded wine glass, and knelt in prayer. Fifteen minutes carefully, slowly passed while the figure knelt in meditation and prayer to the god of joy, overseer of the figure’s purview.
At last, a flustered looking servant of the vintner, denoted by his feuschia-coloured hat and puffed tunic striped with white, hurried to the gate, fumbling a large bronze key for but a moment before pressing it into the padlock and giving a quick twist to unlatch the heavy gates, tearing some of the vines that had quietly grown over the cast iron gate in the night. The figure looked up from his position in meditation, removing their cloak to reveal their sanguine red tunic affixed with a pin of a blossoming rose, denoting their sought after position as a sommelier, though the bronze filigree on the rose denoted his station as a so-called “common sommelier”, in other words, he did not work in the court of a noble.
“Excuse me sir for my lateness,” the butler who had answered the gate said quickly, “his highness the baron insisted that I assist Jean-Martin the vintner with his retrieval of today’s wine.”
The visitor stood, tucking his cloak into a knapsack, and quickly drew a smile onto his face. “Of course, sir, I understand. A noble is never late, after all.”
The butler nodded, a small expression of relief casting a slight shadow over his professionally emotionless face before being beaten back by discipline. He stepped aside, gesturing for the visitor to enter. “You are Gerard Montrac, I presume? The sommelier his highness sent for?”
Gerard stepped inside the gate, his trepidation and wonderment at the vastly beautiful rows of vines bearing a beautifully luscious variety of different grapes and blackberries that were destined to be fermented into a number of glistening recipes. Gerard’s mouth watered at the thought. “Yes, I am.” He scratched his chin. “May I ask, sir, why his highness sent for me?”
The butler hurried to lead Gerard along the path before he could even think about veering from the established roads, perish the thought. He held his arm out in a gesture motioning for Gerard to follow closely. “I was not informed, sir. I am but his highness’s humble servant, it is not my place to question such things.”
The two proceeded through the quiet vineyard in silence; Gerard still kept some of that nervousness with him as he walked, and the butler’s highly formal air was off putting. Despite his own flashy striped suit, Gerard’s work was much more concerned with him assuring customers that the wine they were being sold at an upticked price was a variant recipe and worth their money. As it stood, Gerard had felt that his unique training in his field was quite wasted in this task, but that was of course a matter for another time.
The path was very geometric through the vineyard, organising the grape and blackberry plants into neat rows and grids for easy growing, though it was obvious the rows alongside the tracked path had been infused with an extra essence of beauty, perhaps to impress those who traveled along it, though who that would be, it would be difficult to say; the large padlocked gate certainly did not paint a welcoming visage. Assorted flowers, notably the expensive and rare breeds of lilas blanc and miel bleu, held close to the loose soil underneath the twisted vines, some flowers placed within the vines themselves to add a floral appearance.
The gates of the castle proper were even more foreboding than the gate to the vineyard, yet it was also paradoxically a warming, welcoming threshold; wrought iron bracings and rivets clashed against the huge white oak planks and the innately graceful nature of the permanently-open state of the gate. The white-and-black speckled diorite exterior stonework added to the overall feeling of purity, the likes of which Gerard had not felt since he had last stepped foot into a Salonic cathedral.
The butler stopped at the gate, turning to Gerard. “I apologise, sir, but I must swiftly return to my duties.” He pointed at the continuation of the path, which converted itself into a smoother cobblestone one as it entered the castle walls, tracing its path around the keep as it traveled close to the wall around the keep toward the lighthouse. “Follow this path. His highness has said that he would like to meet you close to la Balise, not in the keep. This path will take you there.” The butler stepped back and gave a showy, formal bow. “Good day to you sir.”
Baron Pierre de Loire of Bergerac stood at the top of the lighthouse called the Beacon, staring down at his crown which he held in his hands in contemplation as he waited to meet two individuals, one he knew and one he did not. He sighed as he brushed his thumb along the patterns imprinted into the silver crown bearing the gold filigreed arms of the House of Loire, the house from which Pierre of Bergerac hailed. He turned toward the stairs that led down to the ground, surprised to find a young mustachioed man in a deep yellow suit standing there, arms held behind his back.
Pierre raised an eyebrow at the man. “You are getting better at that, Maddox.”
The man nodded, restraining a smirk. “I try, your highness.”
Pierre handed the servant his crown, disregarding much of the noble protocol in the process; he was in private, presenting formality was not truly important here. “Maddox, please take this to my chamber. I am expecting a visitor, and I do not wish to evoke an… intimidating first impression.”
Maddox nodded, receiving the crown with a bit more serene formality than the baron cared to show. “Of course, your highness. Of that matter, I have been informed that the sommelier you requested should be here within the hour.”
“Good, good,” Pierre said, turning back to watch the Mer de Verre slowly repeating its rhythmic cycle. “Oh, and by the way,” he added as Maddox was turning away, “make sure Jean-Martin has received my message. That man does have a nasty habit of turning up late.”
Gerard huffed slightly as he ascended the steps of la Balise. Having left the serenity of Château des Fleurs proper, the swirling alternated red and black bricks of the lighthouse made him feel as if his head was truly spinning as he trekked the stairway. He passed another butler on the way up, curiously wearing a dark yellow suit as opposed to the puffed magenta tunic of the previous one. Gerard coughed a quiet bonjour to the man as he passed but otherwise paid little heed.
He was perhaps expecting his meeting with the baron to have more flourish than it had in actuality, as he reached the top, wrestling to restrain his panting from becoming audible. Gerard did not know much about Baron Pierre de Loire of Bergerac, but previous experience had taught him that courteousness was the order of the day when in company with nobles; Gerard recalled an instance where he had had the privilege of attending a dinner party with Countess Vivienne de la Croix of Vincenne and had witnessed no less than four individuals be arrested by the Countess’s guard and thrown in the drunk tank for the night for crimes ranging from being tipsy to chewing loudly. Then again, Countess Vivienne did have a rather strong reputation for stringency.
Baron Pierre watched the portly sommelier reach the top of the stairway, desperately trying to conceal his panting, as he executed a somewhat awkward Corcois bow, a more elegant version of the stiff Rotswaldic bow, though he was somewhat imperfect because of his tiredness.
“You may rise, monsieur Montrac.”
Montrac stood, trying to avoid eye contact in the most polite way possible. “Your highness, if I may be so bold, why did you send for me?”
Pierre was amused. Despite the man’s obvious trepidation, he was also quite direct in his questioning. “Monsieur Montrac, you are a sommelier, yes? I have heard that you possess unique skill in this field.”
Gerard cleared his throat. “Yes, your highness, I am a sommelier.”
Pierre nodded and turned back to the vast sea, looking away from Gerard. “Monsieur Montrac, as you may know, we’ve had a certain tragedy here over the night. Our own Jacques du Mur-Gris was killed last night, shoved off this very lighthouse by some insolent soul. Monsieur du Mur-Gris was our own sommelier, so we’ve sadly been unable to attain the services of one of similar skill. The captain of my guard has informed me that since the body was… rather grisly when it was found, the only lead we have is this.” Pierre produced a small slip of parchment, obviously torn from a larger page. The parchment was stained with wine splashes in two places, and was scrawled in poor handwriting with the message “Le baron est un monstre aux cheveux blancs et à la peau d'elfe, et maintenant je l'ai enfin”.
Gerard stared at the paper. It was considered a prime disgrace to insult the nobility, but someone had so brazenly done it not only in the baron’s own residence, but while murdering one of his servants. “Forgive me, your highness, but I fail to see my own importance in this.”
The baron smiled, passing him the parchment. “Monsieur Montrac, do you see the stains of wine on that paper? There are also these wine stains along the ground.” Pierre indicated dark purplish-red splotches along the floor of the lighthouse top. “Surely you know as well as anyone of the sanctity of wine in Lumis. The murder was obviously committed by someone in this castle, that much I’m sure, but we can be more precise about who could have committed it if we could identify this wine. In this castle, we keep a charter of the wine we make and the wine we buy, and who has access to which recipes. As a particularly well-respected sommelier, monsieur Montrac, I’m sure that if we presented you with the wine recipes we have here, you could identify the wine on the parchment and floor here, yes?”
Gerard hesitated. “Your highness, I believe you may be putting a small amount too much confidence in me. If it is your wish, I will do my best, but–”
“Nonsense, monsieur Montrac,” the baron interrupted, “someone of your caliber will surely perform perfectly in this circumstance.”
The tap tap tap of hard-bottomed shoes smacking into the stone stairs reached the two, forebearing the arrival of a third party to the conversation. This man was much more athletic, coming to the top with a bit of spring in his ascent. His magenta puffed tunic and fuschia hat were similar to the butler from before, although this man had a gold band around his hat, which also contained a white feather, and had a pin on his tunic depicting a lilac, filigreed in silver to denote his role as a noble vintner.
“Pierre, I–” the new person cut himself off, looking at Gerard, before bowing deeply to the baron. “Forgive me, your highness, for my lateness. Giovanni was less competent than I would prefer at retrieving today’s wine.”
“You are forgiven, monsieur de Peyrac,” the baron said. “Monsieur Montrac, this is Jean-Martin de Peyrac, vintner for the House of Loire.”
Jean-Martin stood and offered his hand to Gerard to shake, who shook it weakly. “Good to meet you, monsieur Montrac. Unfortunate that we had to make acquaintance in such an unhappy atmosphere, but I am glad for it nonetheless.” Two servants carrying a tray with small glass bowls on it came to the top of the stairs, notably slower than Jean-Martin. The bowls were each filled with a very distinctive wine; two bowls had red wines, two had pink, and one held a white wine that had aged to a more amber colour.
The baron nodded at the tray. “Monsieur Montrac, I would like you to taste these wines. These five represent the wine recipes we import here at Château des Fleurs; we have Céchalt, the deeper burgundy on the left, Foi et Vie, the darker rose, Luciere, the white in the middle, our house wine, Vin du Loire, is the lighter pink, and of course the fabulous Ciel Clair, the garnet on the right. I want you to try all of these, monsieur Montrac. Then I want you to tell me what wine our perpetrator was drinking.”
Gerard hesitated, but was hardly one to pass on an offer of such exquisite wine, even if only a taste. The variety of wines presented was startling, with their varying tastes from the deep and tangy Céchalt to sweet Luciere to the finished of the absolutely splendid fragrant, floral Ciel Clair.
Gerard took out the parchment, which had been crumpled slightly though the wine stains were still obvious. He inhaled deeply, smelling the wine’s fragrance that had imprinted itself into the paper. There was a moment before the smell hit that he believed it had faded, but then it came as normal; there was that floral smell, the smell of lilacs that he had been fortunate enough to learn accompanied Ciel Clair. The pleasant aroma of the delicate wine was interrupted quite suddenly with a vile acrid odour mixed in; it stank of a monstrously high alcohol content.
Gerard recoiled, covering his nose from the onslaught that the stain had enacted. “That’s Ciel Clair, alright, but it’s been… tainted with liquor of some kind. Someone’s gone and mixed an acrid lesser spirit in with your wine, your highness.”
Jean-Martin and the baron blanched at the sacrilege, but the baron went a deathly grey. Jean-Martin turned to him, “No one except the royal court should have access to the stock of Ciel Clair. Who’s been soiling that good wine with hard liquor?”
The baron turned away, seeming somewhat ashamed. “Well… I confess, we do have a slight penchant for the lesser spirits, our family. But… I don’t believe anyone enjoys the acrid taste of liquor other than my steward.”
Jean-Martin was incredulous. “Maddox? Isn’t he your cousin?”
The baron nodded, grim-faced now. “Yes. And next in line for the title, after me.” He started running down the stairs, shouting ahead of him, “Guards! Fetch the steward! He must stand trial immediately!”
Maddox’s trial was swift. In the end, the priest of Tyrus who presided over the trial was unswayed by the traitorous steward’s claims of the baron’s incompetence, and the word of the sommelier was considered almost damning by itself. As it stood, the discovery of liquor at the crime scene was the final nail in the coffin for Maddox, as it had led to a full searching of Maddox’s chamber by the guards which had revealed not only Maddox’s collection and addiction to the same Zweigesleit-102 liquor found on la Balise, but a plan hastily cobbled together in the previous drunken blood-soaked night to murder the baron on the lighthouse. Apparently Maddox’s liquor-riddled mind had thought it wise to try and search for the baron on la Balise, despite his never having been fond of the lighthouse.
Maddox was pronounced guilty of the murder of Jacques du Mur-Gris, and sentenced to monasterial repentence in a Tyrusian abbey, a sentence entailing being committed to an abbey for manual labour and moral instruction by the Tyrusian monks until he repented and joined the Tyrusian clergy.
Jean-Martin approached Gerard afterward. Both had sat in the jury and had not contested the priest’s verdict; Gerard had, after all, revealed Maddox’s hand himself. “The baron wanted me to tell you that he has an offer.”
Gerard nodded. “Go on.”
“He would like you to take Jacques du Mur-Gris’s place as his court sommelier. Your competence is clearly unmatched, and you quite possibly saved his life, after all.”
Gerard thought for a moment, but it was really quite an easy decision when it came down to it. “Tell the baron I’d be happy to.”
Jean-Martin laughed. “Tell him yourself.” He held up a wine bottle that Gerard had never seen before, bearing the label “Épine Ardente”. “He has invited you and I to a wine tasting session with him at Château des Fleurs. How would you like to come with us?”
Gerard smiled, shaking the vintner’s hand. “I’d love to.”
