Chapter 97: Evelyne Veyra
Duke Alaric appeared at the top of the steps, his presence doing what it always did to a crowd.
Turning volume into attention. He did not have to speak to be heard.
His gaze found Jack, took his measure in a glance that held both appraisal and something like pride he would deny under torture.
"Father approves," Octavia murmured.
"He approves of the results," Jack said.
"That’s what approval means here."
"Fair."
A pair of foreign envoys approached, one with desert silk and kohl around his eyes, the other with the layered wool of northern marchlands.
Jack greeted them in polite phrases borrowed from their tongues.
They wanted tours, demonstrations, and numbers. Jack gave them just enough.
When the northern envoy asked about the bathhouse’s daily capacity, Jack led them to the edge of the steps, gestured to the domes in the distance, described shift rotations and heated pipes and how water moved through a city’s body like blood.
"You speak of cities," the desert envoy said softly, "as if they were people."
"They are," Jack said. "And like people, they live longer when clean."
A murmur of approval. A merchant nearby mentally repriced his offer for exclusive pump rights, then thought better of approaching the boy who had humiliated Bartram with a smile.
Jack paused to drink water.
"Your lordship," a footman said carefully, "House Reinhardt’s carriage approaches."
Octavia’s eyebrows lifted a fraction.
"Should I know them?" Jack asked.
"You might know her," Octavia said. "Lady Evelyne."
"Trouble?"
"Articulate trouble."
The carriage rolled through the gate with understated wealth.
The kind that never asks if you’ve noticed because it knows you have. The door opened and a young woman stepped down.
Dark hair, a dress the color of the ocean, eyes that took a place apart and filed it so quickly you could hear the whisper of paper.
"Lord Jack," she said, as if they were resuming a conversation he had forgotten starting. "I’ve come to see whether you’re a revolution or a fashion."
"Both," Jack said. "On good days."
"Ambitious," she murmured, amused. "Do you always begin with public humiliation of rivals?"
"Only when they volunteer."
Her smile was deadly. "I approve."
"Concerning," Jack said cheerfully.
"Accurate," she returned.
They exchanged the kind of pleasantries that are actually fencing lessons.
She praised the bathhouse, then asked questions to keep the conversation moving.
She placed a compliment exactly where it would feel like a favor. She laughed at the right moments and watched at the others.
Octavia drifted near enough to intercept and protect.
Evelyne’s attention flicked to Corvin, still watching like a patient constellation. "Your raven is handsome."
"He thinks so," Jack said.
"Does he speak?"
"Only when it’s inconvenient."
"Again," she said with that thin smile, "I approve."
A page arrived with a tray of small cups and tiny tarts. Citrus and cardamom, the kitchen was showing off the embersalt.
Celeste reappeared at Jack’s side, looking inappropriately fresh for a woman who had just poured eight shots of varnish remover down her throat and weaponized the experience.
She had acquired a new ring. It looked suspiciously like a prize. She waggled her fingers. "How goes the diplomacy?"
"Everyone wants a piece of us," Jack said.
"Give them cake instead," Celeste advised. "It’s harder to weaponize."
"Not impossible," Octavia said, eyes never leaving Evelyne’s smile.
"True," Celeste conceded. "But whoever weaponizes cake first gets to name the war."
Jack breathed in and then out.
–
"Alright," Celeste said conversationally five minutes later, appearing at Jack’s elbow with the uncanny stealth of a bandit saint, "how married are you to your current purse weights?"
"I’m not loaning you more money."
"It’s for art," Celeste lied.
"That makes it worse."
She patted his arm. "You’re doing splendidly. I saw you talking to Lady Razor-Fan over there. She’ll either marry you or tax you."
"Or both," Octavia said. "In that order."
"Romance," Celeste sighed.
"Don’t you have a table to ruin?" Jack asked.
"Oh, I ruined three. I’m pacing myself." She checked the sun’s angle like a sailor tasting wind. "By the way, Mother sent a note: If anyone offers to adopt Annabelle into their house for artistic patronage, I am allowed to bite them."
"You are not allowed to bite nobles," Octavia said, without looking up.
"We’ll call it a local custom," Celeste suggested.
"Still no."
"Fine." Celeste’s eyes danced. "Maybe I’ll just marry a baron, steal his winery, and come home."
"You’re not marrying a baron for a winery," Jack said.
"I said maybe," Celeste sang, and was gone again.
A soft weight brushed Jack’s boot. He glanced down. A particularly fluffy hen had escaped and crossed half a courtyard of nobility to stand on his foot like a proud medal.
It looked up with round, adoring eyes and made a small, adoring sound.
"Don’t," Jack whispered.
It laid an egg on his shoe.
[Ding!]
[+12 Reputation.]
’You’re the worst,’ Jack told the System, and very carefully did not kick the egg.
[You are loved by poultry. Accept your destiny.]
He stooped, lifted the egg, and because there was nothing else to be done presented it like a gift to the nearest astonished noble.
"For you," he said gravely. "A symbol of Sorne’s fertility."
The man accepted it with a reverence normally reserved for relics.
Corvin made a sound so close to laughter it might have been an actual language.
Octavia pinched the bridge of her nose. "We are never going to live this down."
"On the contrary," Jack said, straightening, "we’re going to sell commemorative pastries."
House Veyra’s factor approached with a polite bow and a paper that smelled faintly of fresh ink.
A merchant consortium representative lingered near a column, calculating at a speed that made his eyes glossy.
Somewhere near the servants’ fringe, the man in grey turned just enough to show his face. Then vanished into the deeper shade by the side doors.
Evelyne’s gaze lingered on the bathhouse domes visible beyond the courtyard.
"You built all of that in months. Either you’re a miracle worker or a very polite tyrant."
Jack tilted his head. "Why choose? I find efficiency a more attractive form of tyranny."
She laughed. It was low and genuine. "Spoken like a man who intends to rewrite every old rule."
"Rules are suggestions," Jack said. "Tradition is just peer pressure from dead people."
Her eyes glinted. "And you? Do you plan to be remembered as a builder... or a conqueror?"
"Whichever history finds more entertaining," he replied, letting the words hang.
Octavia shifted closer, ready to redirect the conversation, when a tall merchant in impeccably cut sapphire robes approached with a bow that was part challenge and the other half an invitation.
"Lady Octavia, might I steal a moment? Your insights on Sorne’s trade routes are already legendary."
Octavia’s eyes narrowed a hair. Her interests and calculation flickering in the same breath.
She glanced at Jack, silently asking if he’d be fine alone.
"I’ll manage," Jack said, a small, wry smile playing at the corner of his mouth.
"Don’t start a revolution without me," Octavia warned, and let the merchant guide her a few steps away.
Evelyne watched her depart, then turned back to Jack with a smile sharp enough to cut silk.
"So, Lord Kaiser, it seems we’re unsupervised. Tell me, what empire are you really building?"