Thomas Barrington picked up the closest object he could find and used it as a bludgeon against a positively defenceless ornate table. An assortment of coloured gems flew off the goblet with every hit - its once pristine, golden form now ruined; mangled beyond all recognition. In the end, the act served no purpose save making a bad situation worse. He threw the useless lump of gold across the tent, less forcefully now.

  He buried his head into his hands, grabbing a thin tuft of hair in each, and pulled. The pain centred him in a strange way, though he didn't know why - perhaps it was because it was an act he was in control of. At least there's no spectators to my humiliation any longer. That he had suffered such indignities at the hands of a mere robe was criminal. The freakish priest was lucky he still had enough use to outweigh his repugnant behaviour; that, and the other dukes would seek retribution for disturbing their greater machinations. Duke Barrington had plenty of levers to pull when it came to eliminating those who wronged him, and he wouldn't hesitate once the odds were in his favour.

  The table was a mess: near every wooden figurine toppled and misplaced, stratagems disrupted. It was of little consequence to him now, given the nights events: the boy had turned out to be a dud, regardless of the zealotry Albert spewed. A waste of time to even entertain the idea, the Duke thought with contempt. His chances of being the one to annex Milney had dropped once again, one of the other dukes all but guaranteed to take the prize. Albert offering his support for the push was naught but lip service - honeyed words to ease him into dropping his guard.

  He would have to set his fallback procedures into motion, he decided. He would hope for the best, but he could not sit idle and risk the duchies of Casfordshire or Grantford gaining a permanent foothold in the Elwood: Milney was his lifeline to Easborough in the west, and that small patch of land was all that stopped him becoming enwreathed by his dubious, fickle allies. He knew that they were all too keen to carve up his territory.

  He rose from his seat with considerable effort, arms shaking as they struggled to support his weight. His vision swam with dark spots for a moment and he swayed where he stood, suffering a wave of dizziness caused by his sudden rise. He waited impatiently for it to subside, then began to collect the various items scattered around the tent, placing them back in their original locations, or hiding away those that were damaged. It wouldn't do to display this side of himself.

  Finished, he sat back down and adjusted himself: a quick tug and twist of his clothing, a ruffle of his hair, a wiggle in his seat. He was now as presentable as he could reasonably make himself, and that would have to do. All he could do now was wait for that oaf Axton to arrive with the healer.

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  Before long, their presence was announced to him. "Sister Isabella and Officer Axton, Your Grace," came the voice of one piddling guard or another; Thomas had never had the inclination to learn their names.

  The tent flap closed, and the Duke spoke with a cold edge to his voice, "Have her wait outside."

  The woman curtseyed before wordlessly taking her leave. She knew better than to speak when unnecessary in his presence - the pompous man would seemingly take any excuse to berate her.

  "The priest is a treacherous rat," Thomas snapped, receiving a knowing nod from the officer that stood in front of him, "and he is not to be trusted. Keep a close eye on him. He intends to waste his time here training that worthless brat, instead of anyone who could actually make a difference. He treats us as fools, and makes us thank him for it."

  "Yes, Your Grace. I'll keep an eye on him, the boy and all," Axton replied gruffly with a quick nod.

  "See that you do, but do not interfere - I would prefer not to arouse suspicion while he sits at our table." The Duke sighed, and placed his elbows onto the table, steepling, before continuing on in a harsh tone, "However, on the larger stage we must act now to prevent catastrophe. Send word to our agents in Casfordshire - it needs to be made evident to Duke Hatherall that he would pay dearly for Milney. Have the duchess followed, and make it clear."

  "Right, I'll be on it first thing-"

  "No, you halfwit!" Thomas screamed with sudden vexation, slamming his hand onto the table once more - the latest occurrence of the day, and likely not the last. He'd hit the same spot as earlier, and the hand throbbed as he splayed his fingers in pain. "You will do it now. There is precious little time, and I will not have you waste it."

  Officer Axton narrowed his eyes in repressed annoyance. He didn't appreciate the way the duke spoke to him - he never had - but it was standard behaviour for nobles, and for all his bluster the duke did pay him handsomely.

  Duke Barrington spoke again with stilted calm, "Prioritise the training of anyone with genuine potential, anyone we can trust. We'll need to push into Milney ahead of schedule, before the Kalends." He leaned back in his chair. "Send the healer in on your way out," he said with a dismissive wave, and Officer Axton turned and left.

  It was unlikely that he'd be able to take Milney with the forces he had, and simple training in only a few weeks was unlikely to bare any fruit, but he had to take his chances. If it came to it, he'd cut his losses and depart for Halbury to get ahead of any political scheming from his enemies and ingratiate himself with the Order. He was certain, that they'd not take kindly to news of a separatist rebellion, and there was no trail left to mark him a conspirator.

  If he couldn't have Milney, nobody could.