Chapter 95: Cluck Whisperer
From the upper veranda of the Kaiser estate, Jack watched Sorne as everyone began to start their day.
Carts rattled softly across fitted avenues. A baker’s bell rang at the hour. He let himself breathe it all in.
His city, his people, the subtle thrum of a place where Jack finally felt at home.
’Imagine, this will all be mine one day.’
[DING!]
[Optional Quest: Forge the Future | Secure at least one strategic alliance today.]
[Reward: +3,000 Reputation, ???]
[Failure: –10,000 Reputation. Your family’s opinion of you will worsen.]
Jack blinked at the blue script and felt his shoulders tense the way they did before a fight. ’Second optional quest ever,’ he thought. ’And it threatens my family’s opinion. Is this going to be more frequent? Force me to do your bidding or I will suffer?’
Another chime clipped the air.
[New Title Earned: Cluck Whisperer]
[Description: Your benevolence and farm-friendly policies have endeared you to the feathered population. Chickens find you irresistible and are 100% more likely to follow, cuddle, or gift you eggs.]
He read it twice, then a third time, because there are some things a man simply doesn’t expect at sunrise.
’System, are you drunk?’
[No intoxication detected. You have achieved maximum poultry appeal.]
Jack dragged a hand down his face and, very quietly, said, "I’m the chicken prince of Sorne."
A glossy raven cocked its head from the balustrade, obsidian eyes bright with amusement. Corvin croaked once, the sound suspiciously like a laugh.
–
Down below, a pair of kitchen maids carried baskets toward the back steps. They hadn’t even reached the door before a trio of fat hens waddled out of the shrubs.
The birds spotted Jack on the veranda, froze, and then, utterly smitten, raised a chorus of approving clucks.
"Don’t you dare," Jack murmured.
All three hens trotted for the veranda stairs.
Seraphina stepped into the morning light beside him, "My lord, you asked to be reminded: the first carriages are due within the hour."
"Right. Yes." He nodded, then angled his head toward the hens now clambering up the wide steps like tiny, determined mountaineers. "Why are the chickens... smiling at me?"
Seraphina, to her eternal credit, did not blink. "Perhaps they appreciate the new grain storage, my lord."
A fourth hen appeared, this one with ridiculous plumage like a powdered wig. It stared at Jack, made a contented churrr, laid a warm egg on the step, and nudged it toward his boot with evident pride.
Jack stared down at the gift. ’This can’t be my life.’
[Title effect functioning as intended. Accept the offering.]
He reached into his coat, produced a handkerchief, and because nobility demands dignity in all things, solemnly collected the egg. "Tell the kitchens they have... ah... an early delivery."
"Yes, my lord." Seraphina’s mouth did not curve into a smile.
Jack sighed. ’Fine. If destiny insists on pageantry, we’ll give it pageantry. And maybe not die in the attempt.’
He tucked the egg into the hands of a Seraphina, charmed a path through the adoring hens with an apologetic smile "No, ladies, I can’t hold you right now." And moved for the front steps
--
By midmorning, a herald’s trumpet announced the first names as each noble or merchant made their way into the Kaiser estate.
Jack stepped down the stairs with care.
He was dressed in midnight blue jacket with silver thread. A simple pin at his throat, the Kaiser sigil understated rather than ostentatious; boots polished enough to see a man’s insecurity reflected in them.
"Welcome to Sorne," Jack could hear his father talking. He was meeting with the first wave of guests.
The courtyard swelled with silk and velvet, furs and jewels, the measured arrogance of old houses and the sharp hunger of new fortunes.
Merchants craned for a glimpse of the bathhouse domes peeking above rooftops.
A marquis pinched the bridge of his nose as if the very efficiency of the roads offended him.
A scholar in grey stared at a public fountain like it had just recited poetry.
Octavia appeared at Jack’s shoulder, a blade disguised as a smile.
Elegant bun, pearl pins, a ledger tucked under one arm.
"Don’t forget to breathe," she murmured without moving her lips.
"I won’t, dear sister."
On his other side, Annabelle glowed with that fragile, luminous softness that made people confide their cruelties to her without realizing they were confessing.
She clutched a small sketchbook like a talisman, eyes roaming everywhere. "They’re beautiful," she breathed. "Like a garden full of dangerous flowers."
"Try not to pet any," Octavia said.
"What if they have thorns?"
"Then especially don’t pet them."
"What about the ones with thorns and smiles?"
"Those are the worst."
There was a minor commotion near the gate.
A cart’s wheel threw a spray of mud and then the first cluster of nobles peeled free of their carriages and swept toward Jack like a tide that presumed itself welcome.
Jack went bead first into the nobles.
House Learen, House Veyra, House something that sounded like a cough.
He accepted compliments about the roads with a gracious nod, answered questions about water pressure with simple diagrams and simpler words because nothing ruins diplomacy like public arithmetic.
And deflected three separate attempts to buy exclusive rights to the bathhouse design with the efficiency of a well-oiled hinge.
"No exclusivity," he said to a merchant prince whose ring collection merited its own tax bracket. "But licensed construction at fair rates? That we can discuss."
"Fair rates," the man echoed, as if the words were exotic fruit.
Jack smiled. "The kind that makes everyone wealthier."
Corvin drifted to the top of the estate and considered the assembly with a tilted head.
Jack followed the raven’s gaze to a cluster of servants at the far edge of the courtyard.
A polite swarm of forgettable faces. One of them lingered too long at the edge of the steps, eyes skimming the estate grounds as they scribbled something on a piece of parchment.
"Ah," someone drawled, rich and nasally. "So this is the modern heir of Sorne I’ve heard so much about."
Jack turned his gaze to meet the man who spoke.
The man wore a wine-red cloak trimmed with silver, moustache sculpted like handlebars. He carried a cane that had never supported his weight. The sort of person who thought wars were fought for the pleasure of improving his view.
"Lord...?" Jack asked mildly.
"Bartram," he said, flicking his cloak just so. "House Dorian."
"Welcome," Jack said. "I hope the roads treated your wheels kindly."
"They are... orderly," Bartram conceded. "One can appreciate a straight line even when it leads nowhere interesting."
Octavia grabbed Jack’s elbow: a warning that read, No blood on the pavers before luncheon.
Bartram offered an anemic smile. "I confess I expected someone... taller. And perhaps less provincial. Frontier duchies breed sturdy stock, I’ve heard, but refinement, well, that’s another matter entirely, isn’t it?"
It was so quaintly insulting Jack almost applauded.
He imagined he practiced this insult in front of a mirror for weeks before coming here.
Jack let his expression soften into amused pity. "Perhaps I could simply out-drink you," he said pleasantly, "and buy the refinement with your coin."
Conversation skittered outward in a ripple. Heads turned. Even the fountain looked alert.
Bartram laughed, a brittle thing. "A drinking contest? Here? Before dinner?"
"Unless you’re afraid." Jack let the words fall, feather-light and razor-sharp.
Color rose like a bad sunburn up Bartram’s neck. "Name your wager."
"Two hundred gold," Jack said. "Winner takes all."
Bartram’s chin lifted. "Accepted."
Jack glanced past him, caught a little bird trying to pick someone’s pocket. "Then meet your opponent."
Celeste arrived like a toast to bad ideas: bottle in hand, eyes full of trouble, grace like a knife tucked in silk.
She was luminous in a gown that said count the cards and a grin that said you already lost.
She vaulted a low chain of potted cypress and landed at Jack’s side with ease.
"Someone said ’wager,’" she sang, popping the cork with a twist that sent it arcing into the sky like a fleeing thought.
The cork smacked a herald’s plume at twenty paces; the herald did not flinch, because heralds are carved from the same wood as gallows.
"Lord Bartram of House Dorian," Jack said, as if presenting a roast. "Celeste Kaiser of House, you’re going to regret insulting me."
Bartram made a sound that was technically polite. "A... lady?"
Celeste’s smile sharpened. "Occasionally."