The Duke of Painite - Part 4 - The Sleepless Baron
26 Dec 2019Smertkopf
My attainment of the Imperial title of Baron was the first gain of rank on my road to the Dukedom that felt like more than a mere formality. It involved an elaborate ceremony hosted and overseen by the honorable Viscount Hanlon D'Armitage VII, an important personage among the nobility of Kutjalangai and a patron to many nobles below his rank. Lord Bartleby informed me that to have the Viscount D'Armitage sponsor my Barony was a great honor, as he was held in high esteem by Countess Zebeza Arkominy XIX, herself a socialite and rising star in the Emperor's court. To his credit, Evyn's manner hasn't become cringing and intolerable since I have come to outrank him, but he certainly isn't as forthcoming as he once was, ever mindful of saying something that might offend one above his station. Having myself come to view this entire climbing of rank from the perspective of pure pragmatism, I told Bartleby that I didn't much care which fop gave me which title, and that I had paved my way to my office with blood and death. That took the jolly old fellow aback, but he admirably regained his composure and even pushed back a bit against my depressing nihilism.
"I must respectfully disagree, Baron Smertkopf," he said cautiously, pronouncing my name correctly for the first time since we'd met, the effort clearly costing him as he spoke it with practiced care. "You have done the Empire greater service than perhaps anyone can understand. I have seen the tales of your heroism on the local Galnet feeds, and all speak of your fantastic altruism and charitable donations with glowing admiration! Those pirate scum you have slain were the refuse of the Galaxy, and we are all well rid of them now, thanks to you, so please do not despair!"
The old man was nearly weeping and completely sincere, and despite my dark mood I had to smile inwardly in response to his genuine outpouring of goodwill.
"Okay, Bartleby," I said, patting him on one pudgy, silk-encased shoulder, "I apologize for making light of my good works on behalf of the Empire, and I thank you for your kind words."
"Forgive my impertinence," Bartleby's face had taken on an almost theatrical tone of concern that would have seemed put on if I hadn't known the man better, and his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, "but I must say that you look simply dreadful, sir...I fear for your health."
"I haven't been sleeping terribly well lately," I conceded.
"Is it some illness?"
I had to think about that for a moment before answering. "No, Bartleby, not an illness per se. I've got a lot on my mind at the moment, is all."
"Might I ask what troubles you, sir? I am ever at your disposal."
Lord Evan Bartleby is one of the biggest gossips I've ever met; I had every reason to believe that anything I told him would eventually end up in the ear of every blue-blood in the entire system, and I was in fact counting on this as I continued, "It's the slaves, Evyn. That's what troubles me."
"The sl-" he began, clearly confused, and then his expression brightened and he let out a little yip of delight as he grasped my right hand in both of his own sweaty palms, forgetting all decorum in his excitement, and the conspiring whisper returned in force. "Oh, now I understand, Baron Smartkop! You must seek to join the service of the Princess, yes?"
Despite the temptation to pull my hand back and scold Bartleby for mispronouncing my name again, I feigned ignorance. "Princess? There are hundreds of Princesses, Bartleby, you'll need to be more specific than that."
Forgetting himself even further, Bartleby gave me a look that clearly displayed his undisguised wonder at what a rube I was and whispered, "Why, the Princess Aisling Duval, of course!"
"Aisling Duval?" I said with mock skepticism. "The debutante? She looks good on the holoscreens, but as far as I can tell she's just a spoiled heiress with a pretty face playing around at politics and not someone to be taken seriously."
Bartleby dropped my hand like it had suddenly grown hot and his face reddened with real anger. When he spoke, it was clear that he was suppressing his rage.
"Despite your rank, Baron Smertkopf, I must demand that you recant those cruel words against the Princess. She is a remarkable young lady with a keen intellect and sense of justice, and if you truly mean to do anything to remove people from bondage, then you would do well to speak her name with respect."
I held up my hands in a gesture of reconciliation.
"My apologies, Lord Bartleby," I said softly. "I recant my foolish words, and as penance I would like to join the Princess in her efforts to stamp out the slave trade. How might I go about that, my friend?"
The last minute or so seemed to catch up mentally with Bartleby at this point, because he let out the breath he had been holding in an explosive sigh and became visibly paler and more exhausted-looking. It was clear to me that he had just realized that he had upbraided a superior aristocrat and thus put himself in jeopardy of retaliation. I couldn't tell him that he actually earned my respect in that moment, at least not yet, so I let him collect himself before he continued.
"Well," the plump Lord said sheepishly, "as it happens, you sort of already have, sir."
This earned him a raised eyebrow from me. "Is that so? I don't recall my induction into the cause."
"Well, it's not quite official yet, Baron Smertkopf, but it only awaits your agreement for it to become so."
"Who are you, Bartleby?"
Bartleby smiled warmly, "I am what you see, my friend; a fat, silly Lord with more time and money than brains and skill. For all of that I am well known, well-liked, and well-connected, and I hate the slave trade with a burning passion. When I saw the Princess Aisling rise into prominence, I knew at once that the future of the Empire lay in her hands, and I have dedicated myself to her cause ever since. If you wish it, I shall be glad to introduce you to others who feel the same as we do."
"Very well, Bartleby," I said with my first genuine smile in many days. "Show me the way."
I took back up my tasks of pirate assassinations and deliveries with great industriousness even as I was introduced to contacts in the employ of Princess Aisling who finally accepted me into their ranks after confirming that I hadn't carried slaves, Imperial or otherwise, during my work for the Empire. While this is not a condition of entry for the service of the Princess in general, these particular agents would not work with anyone who had knowingly transported human chattel, and through them I began to receive and then smuggle out small handfuls of liberated slaves, taking them to drop points in nearby systems to enter a network of safe havens and hideouts that processed them back out into the Galaxy under new identities. I make sure all of the escapees get a hot meal if they want it and I try to remember their names when I get them.
I keep hoping to see the girl whose fate was the pleasure gardens, but so far she is nowhere to be found, and I dare not go to the actual gardens to find her. I am finally able to sleep most nights without watching her flee from me in nightmares where I am the pursuing monster. That is something, I suppose. By the time I received notice of my attainment of the rank of Imperial Viscount, another dozen or so pirates had died whilst thrice that many slaves had used my ship as cover to slip their bonds and go free. We shall take back up the tale from there. Until then, fly safe and fly free, my friends.
o7
CMDR Smertkopf