CHAPTER FOUR-HUNDRED FIVE

Earl Paulte Heindarl Bulifinor Magnamtir if'Gofnar

The Earl smiles as he gazes into the mirror. Platinum accents were definitely the correct choice. Black and platinum with just a few little splashes of blue make for a sombre and dignified suit to wear to his son’s funeral. And for those who recognize platinum at a glance, they will understand no expense was spared in his mourning for his son.

Things are coming together swiftly. Swiftly enough that, despite his substantial bribe to the Dungeoneers, the paperwork is still being finalized. All it needs are a few seals from those more senior in the organization, and the dungeon will be officially marked as murderous! He’d like to have the fully official forms to flaunt at the funeral, but he thinks this will work even better.

After all, even if he’s mourning for his son, he wouldn’t go to a funeral in an officially murderous dungeon. It simply wouldn’t be proper. Besides, if he can flaunt the fact he’ll be paying personally for the magical delivery of the paperwork, he might be able to goad the dungeon or its worshipers into doing something truly stupid, and make the proof all the more evident.

He chuckles as he turns, nodding for Felicia to follow him. Ordinarily, he’d be sure to be fashionably late, but funerals are the rare exception to the rule. The guest of honor is the most late, a pun which always earns a sensible chuckle from him. To try to compete would be in poor taste, so he intends to arrive early enough to be, if not the first seated, close enough to it.

He walks the hallway from his room, nodding at Jondar as he passes. He’d prefer to leave his Head Maid to protect the room, but propriety demands he show up with his servant. The guildmaster can keep his room secure until he returns. He’d better, if he knows what’s good for him. His lips twitch into a smirk at the thought. Of course he knows. He’s being paid quite a lot of money to know.

Leaving the guildmaster could be seen as a small slight, but officially, the Earl is simply a benefactor of the guild, and so has no sway. Any slight from him staying would be on Jondar himself, and even that wouldn’t be extensive. A guildmaster of a new guild is a busy man, of course. As tragic as the mayor’s passing was, Jondar hardly knew him, and the funeral was arranged so quickly that he simply couldn’t reschedule.

He’s used similar excuses himself in the past.

He relishes in the eyes of the adventurers as he passes, finding amusing irony in the jealous looks of those with so much supposed power. Money and influence are the true power. Any rube can stomp through some dreary dungeon and gain levels, but no matter how strong they get, they will never be nobles. He lets a satisfied smile grow on his lips before he forces his face back to neutrality. Much as he enjoys his position, he’s still supposed to be a father in mourning. A self-satisfied smile does not paint a picture of a grieving parent.

Besides, he’ll have plenty of time for that in the carriage ride. Once the door closes behind him, he happily indulges, though he’s not the sort for scheming laughter. A smile and plush cushions are all he needs at the moment. Perhaps he’ll let himself laugh once the thieves are dealt with, though that will be some time. As he understands it, starving a dungeon takes time and effort, not to mention coin. But coin can buy effort, and he has more than enough to leverage for this and to still keep his other ventures running.

Especially since his monopolies will return once he has the dungeon locked down. This will even play into his hands. People will have grown used to the output, more reliant on the materials, enough that they will pay dearly to keep their access, even through a different supplier.

Yes, the future is looking bright indeed. It takes him longer than usual to discipline his expression into one of stoic loss once he feels the dungeon around him, but the cathedral is deep enough in the forest that he has the time to do so. The morning sun filters through the thick canopy above, and he has to admit it does lend a bit of weight to the scene. Several people mill around outside, making their last-minute preparations for the event.

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He can see he’s not the first to arrive, but if the schedule for the day is correct, he appears to be the first to arrive who’s not directly involved in the funeral. Oh, he’ll be expected to give a speech, of course, but he refuses to do so at the whim of the priests and priestesses. He almost hopes they try to stop him once he stands to give his speech. It’d earn him just that much more sympathy.

He gives slight nods to a few of the priests, as well as a significant look to Miller, as he passes them and into the cathedral itself. He eyes the decor as he walks down the isles, heading for the front as he takes in the surroundings. The design is thoughtful, but the material is simplistic and the craftsmanship is all over the place. Reliefs that are intended to catch the eye are clearly done by masters, but the smaller details around them are clearly from those still learning.

At least the benches and the cushions atop them are high quality, if also simplistic. He recognizes spider silk when he sits on it, as well as spiderkin

. It’s less impressive with kin being involved, but what was he expecting from a jumped up hole in the ground? In fact, from that perspective, he can believe the maximum effort was put into all of this.

Others start trickling in as the time passes, and he spends some of it looking at the floor and the sculptures beneath it. It’s a very strange design, having a floor made of clear tiles to show off the room beneath, but the effect is one he may need to steal for himself. He also may need to steal whoever did the sculpting beneath the floor, too. A wide variety of monsters are on their own pedestals, captured beautifully in stone. He makes a note to find whoever made them later, to commission a piece or two.

Perhaps a memorial statue of Rezlar? That would play well to the masses…

What time he doesn’t spend admiring the statues, he spends meeting with well-wishers. It’s tiring to hear the same platitudes over and over, but it helps cement his place as the grieving father. And of course, it earns him more influence with the nobles as they try to network with him even now. They are subtle about it, of course, but one can’t put two nobles in a room without them looking to make deals, even if the room is on fire.

Eventually, the seats are all filled, and the funeral begins. A mournful dirge drifts through the air as the large coffin is carried in. Two of the pallbearers are Rezlar’s party members, the orc and the goblin, though the goblin is forced to use her magic to carry her share at the appropriate height. And she’s not the only one.

Across from her, the red kobold in white robes carries her share with magic as well. Miller is, of course, among the group, as is a figure the Earl doesn’t recognize, covered in a long robe with a hood, that hides all of their features. The final figure is another orc, this one much thinner than the other, yet he carries his share with little struggle. The Earl would be surprised if he didn’t know who Karn the Slight is.

He should lodge some sort of formal complaint against his guild later. While he doubts the rogue broke any rules in employing his son, it’s the principle of the matter. He is a father looking for anyone to make pay, so why should the guild leader that knowingly employed Rezlar be an exception?

Most of the procession takes a seat in the first row, though several benches away from him. Two, however, remain on the raised dais: The kobold, and the hooded figure. The figure stands to the side, head bowed, some sort of priest most likely, as the kobold takes the center and starts to speak.

“We are gathered here today to mourn the loss and commemorate the life of Lord Mayor Rezlar Herjan Kalsorthoth Niyeroul if’Gofnar the Eighth. A beloved friend. A skilled delver. A compassionate leader. A devoted follower of Lord Thedeim. He was all this and so much more. His life was tragically cut short in an accident not far from this very cathedral, where he fell to his untimely demise.

“He had only just started taking the reins of leadership, learning confidence and resilience after the events of Lord Thedeim’s clash with Hullbreak Harbor. He had shied from the pressure of truly being the Mayor, but after that, he knew he had to step up.

“And so he did. He worked together with Lord Thedeim to secure the town, and the Hold is but one of many projects they have collaborated on. He came to follow Lord Thedeim, to work to be a positive change not only in his own life, but in the lives of all of those of Fourdock.”

Sniffles and muffled sobs from those gathered form the backdrop for her speech, many genuinely missing Rezlar. The sombre atmosphere is ruined slightly by the sound of the large doors creaking open, allowing more light to enter the shadowed hall. The Earl does his best to ignore whoever the echoing footsteps belong to, at least until the first gasps start echoing through the gathered people.

He would have continued to ignore them, if Felicia didn’t tensely whisper into his ear. “My lord… there’s a problem.”

Before he can answer, the red kobold speaks once more. “And his work is not yet done.” She steps aside to allow the rude latecomer to take her place, and even the Earl is stunned to see who it is.

Standing there on the dais is his son, regarding him with a look of mixed disgust and apathy. “Hello, father.”