- Chapter 049 -

  Tantrum of Self-Importance

  Mark watched as Eric Chambers stepped across the threshold, bringing the chill of the mountain morning in with him. He didn't just enter the room, he claimed it, his presence a palpable weight that seemed to suck the warmth from the air.

  "Mister Chambers," Mark said, his voice calm and professional. He gestured with an open hand toward the dining table. "Please, have a seat. We were just having some tea."

  A short, sharp bark of a laugh, escaped Chambers' lips. He didn't move from his position near the door, an arrogant monument in Mark's living room.

  "I'll stand," he stated, his voice remaining smooth. "This won't take long."

  His gaze made a slow, dismissive sweep of the table, his eyes lingering for a fraction of a second on George's simple grey robes, then settling with open contempt on Anabella's crisp, new uniform. The sneer that had been a subtle curl on his lip now blossomed into a full, ugly expression of disdain.

  "And I see you've brought distractions," Chambers observed, his tone making the word 'distractions' sound like 'vermin'. "A bookworm from the library and... is that a poor lost child playing dress-up? I'm touched by your commitment to this little display, Shilling, but it fails to change the outcome."

  The insult, so casual and absolute, landed with the force of a physical blow. Mark saw Anabella bristle, her back going straight, her hand twitching instinctively toward the hilt of her sword. George remained a picture of placid professionalism, only taking another deliberate sip of his tea.

  Anabella, however, was not one for quiet defiance. She pushed her chair back, the scrape of wood on stone a sharp, angry sound in the tense quiet. Her face was flushed with a mixture of youthful indignation and professional outrage.

  "Guardswoman Anabella Rhine, of the Militia Guild—" she began, her voice formal, a clear and practiced attempt to assert her authority.

  Chambers cut her off with a lazy, dismissive wave of his hand, not even bothering to look at her directly.

  "Rhine," he mused, the name momentarily considered. "Of course." His gaze finally settled on her, his eyes devoid of any respect. "Tell your father his position on the Mimas trade council is a privilege, not a right."

  He let the words hang in the air, a casual threat.

  "Privileges," he finished, a cruel smile touching his lips, "can be... revoked."

  The effect was instantaneous and absolute. The color drained from Anabella's face. Her hand, which had been hovering over her sword, dropped to her side as if she'd been burned. She sank back into her chair, the righteous fury in her eyes gone, replaced by a look of horrified shock. She was a daughter who had just heard her family threatened, understanding she could do nothing about it.

  Mark let out a slow sigh of professional disgust. He had seen this too many times before. The posturing, the personal attacks designed to shatter an opponent's confidence before even sitting down to talk. Chambers wasn't just an asshole, he could be the cover image on a textbook of corporate bullying. By Mark's estimate, his magic was adding to the overall effect, but more so as a crutch than a reliance on a charismatic attempt.

  "Mister Chambers," Mark said, his voice cutting through the heavy, shocked silence. He didn't raise it. The quiet, practiced calm of authority in his tone was enough to pull the room's focus back to him.

  He met the administrator's cold, arrogant gaze.

  "Could we at least pretend to have some decency?" he asked, the question a simple, direct challenge to the man's entire performance. "We are, after all, here to discuss the... requests... of your Guild."

  A flicker of something that might have been amusement crossed Chambers’ face at the mention of decency. He shook his head slowly, the gesture a perfect pantomime of a patient adult dealing with a hopelessly naive child.

  "Decency is a courtesy extended between equals, Shilling," he said, his voice smooth and condescending. "A false assumption if you believe you are."

  Mark glanced at the library clerk. George hadn't moved a muscle, but there was a quiet, almost imperceptible shift in his posture. He was leaning forward ever so slightly, his expression one of placid, professional interest. It was the look of a man who had paid for a front-row seat and was thoroughly enjoying the performance.

  Chambers, however, had clearly run out of patience for the theatrical preamble. His face hardened, the thin veneer of civility cracking to reveal the raw, impatient arrogance beneath.

  "The Guild’s expectation is simple," he stated, his voice now a sharp, cold command. "You will sign the contract. And if you feel the need to consider your options, you should be aware of a few developments."

  He began to tick the points off on his fingers, each one seemingly designed to tear apart Mark's carefully crafted paper shield.

  "That Guildless old man who tried to play the hero? Silas? Nowhere to be found. Seems he had more pressing matters elsewhere."

  The casual, dismissive statement sent a chill down Mark’s spine, but it was expected of someone that had stated they wanted to remain off the board.

  "And your even bigger neighbor, Lothar?," Chambers continued, a cruel smile touching his lips, "has wisely declined to provide a statement on the matter."

  Mark saw Anabella flinch, her gaze dropping to the notebook in her lap. Two key witnesses gone. The implication that it only took a few words into the right ear.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  "As for your little healer..." Chambers gave a small laugh. "...a quiet word with her superiors at the Alchemists' Guild can be arranged. Should she develop any ideas of her own, those things can have... consequences."

  He let the final, venomous threat hang in the air. The notion of any type of conversion on the matter was dismissed with a direct and personal attack against those of Mark's acquaintance. Then, he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low murmur that was more menacing than any shout.

  "So let me be perfectly clear about the reality you are facing," he said, his eyes locking onto Mark's. "The official record, the one that will be presented to the council, will state that an aggressive displaced person assaulted a Guild representative during the execution of his duties." He paused, letting the lie solidify. "In their subsequent, uncontrolled rage, you then had a tragic accident that resulted in their current... condition."

  The story Eric Chambers laid out was a neat and tidy narrative, a perfect piece of fiction designed to absolve his Guild of all responsibility if he could sell the high points. Mark listened to the brutal lie, and instead of fear, he felt a strange detached calm. This wasn't a threat to his life anymore. He was being dismissed as nothing more than a line on the paper thrown at him.

  "Alright," Mark said, his voice quiet but steady. He met the administrator's cold, triumphant gaze. "I’ll accept that your little fantasy sounds nice."

  He paused, letting the simple, dismissive assessment hang in the air.

  "But what's really to stop me just saying no?"

  The simplicity of the refusal seemed to short-circuit Chambers' brain. He blinked, a flicker of genuine confusion momentarily breaking through his arrogant facade. Then he laughed, a short, sharp bark of a sound that held no humor, only contempt.

  "Sign the contract, Shilling," he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Get it over with. You're embarrassing yourself."

  As he spoke, Mark felt it again. That subtle, oily pressure at the edges of his awareness, the quiet, insistent whisper that wasn't his own. The warm, cloying suggestion that agreeing was the sensible path, the path of least resistance. Eric’s Heart of Community, a tool for fostering trust and for this context a tool for exploiting those around him.

  "You don't understand, do you?" Chambers said, a cruel smile spreading across his face as he watched for the effect of his magic. "This is my community. These are my people."

  His gaze swept over the two silent figures at the table. He didn't see them as individuals, but as pieces on his board to be manipulated.

  "The clerk knows his duty is to the Collective, and my Guild is the foundation of this Collective," his voice a confident, persuasive hum. "And the child... she knows her family's future depends on her good behavior." He let the veiled threat settle before delivering his conclusion. "They will agree with me. Because it's the right thing to do. The only sensible thing to do."

  The pressure in Mark's head intensified, a dull, throbbing demand to concede, to accept the inevitable. But his mind had already rejected it outright, an annoying voice in the darkness, the voice of desperation and lack of ability.

  Chambers saw the lack of compliance in Mark's eyes, and his confident mask began to crack. His magic wasn't working, for reasons he couldn't understand. So he fell back on a cruder, more direct tool. His voice became cold and sharp.

  "If you don't sign," he said, his eyes locking onto Mark's with a new, predatory intensity, "accidents happen. This is a dangerous part of the world, after all." He let the generic threat settle for a moment before making it personal. "Starting with that little huntress, Dawn was it? A shame if she had an 'accident' in the high peaks. For associating with a nobody like you."

  He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, adding to his final, brutal escalation.

  "That cat of hers... it would make a fine rug."

  Through the entire, escalating performance, Mark was vaguely aware of George. The library clerk hadn't flinched. He hadn't reacted to the threats, personal or political. He hadn't even seemed to notice the subtle, magical pressure that filled the room. He had simply, with an almost bored expression, finished his tea, setting the mug down on the table with a soft, deliberate click. To Eric Chambers, a man blinded by his own sense of importance, the quiet, unassuming bookworm was an irrelevant piece of scenery, but that had the back of Mark's mind guessing at the why.

  Chambers wasn't just threatening him at this point. He was threatening the few people that had been pulled into his orbit, either out of curiosity or professional duty. He could feel a cold simmering anger building deep inside, he knew the choice in front of him, but his professional background wouldn’t allow him to capitulate to this second rate bully. The aftermath would be the issue, and managing that from his position would be near impossible.

  "Ah, there it is," he purred, his voice a triumphant, condescending hum. "The aggression I've heard so much about. Finally showing your true colors, are we?"

  He leaned against the doorframe, a picture of relaxed, confident superiority. "Go on, Shilling. Get angry. It just makes my story easier to sell." He gestured theatrically around the room. "The dangerous displaced, threatening a pillar of the community after being invited! It practically writes itself."

  Mark just looked at him. A long, considering look that held no fear, only academic disappointment. Then, he laughed. It was a short, almost pitying sound that cut through the tense silence.

  "You know," Mark said, his voice a calm, conversational deadpan, "if I were actually going to assault you, I'd at least want a cricket bat to hand."

  The term, so alien, landed with further confusion. Chambers' triumphant sneer faltered, replaced by a flicker of puzzlement.

  "And as you can probably see," Mark continued, gesturing with a weary hand at his own seated position, "I'm a little mobility-impaired at the moment. A situation I am considering your involvement in."

  He met the administrator's baffled, furious gaze, and offered a thin, tired smile that held no humor at all.

  "Honestly, the whole 'give in to your anger' speech... the dark side monologues..." Mark shook his head slowly, a gesture of sad disappointment. "It's all very... one-dimensional, and after your well crafted threats. Just disappointing."

  Chambers just stared.

  “I invited the Masons to send a representative here to discuss things, and potentially come to an agreement.” Mark took a sip of tea, giving Chambers a moment to reply and when failed Mark continued. “My expectations of a shrewd negotiator, an intellectual challenge, have been met with the disappointment of side-show mind tricks and threats of violence.”

  The smooth, condescending face of the senior administrator was gone. He was a bully whose target had not only refused to flinch but had started critiquing the quality of his threats. The well practiced, one sided meeting had run its course, the opportunity to maintain the facade had passed.

  His face, which had been a canvas of shifting arrogance, settled with ugly impatience. He had lost the verbal sparring match, and he knew it.

  "Sign the contract," he snapped, his voice no longer aiming to persuade, but to command. "Stop wasting my time. You're making this worse for yourself and everyone involved with your little tantrum of self-importance."

  As he spoke, his eyes flickered, a subtle shift in focus as he assessed the room not with his eyes, but with his magic. Mark saw it, a faint, shimmer of red light through the arm of his jacket.

  "Your insolence is as empty as your magical potential," Chambers sneered, his confidence returning as he surveyed the room. "I’m Garnet, Shilling. A fact you would do well to remember, as Alex previously demonstrated."

  His contemptuous gaze swept over the table. "Your little guard dog is a Quartz," he stated, dismissing Anabella with a wave of his hand. His eyes then settled on George, who was calmly taking another sip of his tea. "...and the pet bookworm is barely even that with what appears to be the Heart of Stone."