The Warlord and the Bard

by Eric Alan Westfall

  Alain watches them leave, but even when the aisle that opened up to allow the departure, closes behind the trio, no one makes a move to fill up all that empty space. Not with Alain standing there. He fills the space by himself. He turns, lifts his head, looks directly at me. He has always had a good sense of where I am. For which I have on more than one occasion been profoundly grateful, though I rarely express that gratitude.

  # No. I don’t want to discuss it, # I said with a voice-link. Goddess damn. Just because a man has wiped your bottom when you were a baby, spanked it when you were being particularly bratty, titles or no, saved your life, given you your first sword and first fencing lesson, all the things a father would do if you had a father who cared, doesn’t mean you have to sound like a sullen, spoiled little child. Particularly not one getting in defense or avoidance before anything is said that requires either or both. Which is, of course, precisely what I sound like.

  It is a good plan. No, an excellent plan. And I am not committing the sin of believing the plan is so good nothing can go wrong. It is an article of faith with Alain, almost but not quite equal to the faith he has in the Goddess, that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. He believes even more strongly that a man who believes nothing can go wrong is a man who will inevitably fuck the plan up himself.

  # But of course, your Royal and Imperial Highness. Just as you say. #

  I only let ‘Kiri and him get away with that let’s-soothe-the-nasty-little-brat tone—probably because I have never been able to stop either of them. The others who tried to follow their example deeply regretted the attempt.

  His look hardens into brief seriousness that no one around him notices. It is something in his eyes. # We are ready. #

  Ready, although he does not believe there will be an assassination attempt tonight. Ready, even though he does not believe anything remotely harmful to anyone will occur tonight because of the signal Niallan is sending. That Goddess-awful red signal. Niallan is, after all, Niallan, and a more unlikely conspirator could not be found on the planet. But my cousin wasn’t there, earlier. He doesn’t know what I know, and there’s no way I will tell him the full tale. So he is forced to follow the orders of one or more of my titles—I let him pick the one which would compel him to obey.

  Despite his disbelief, however, he is as prepared as it is possible to be. His presence will cause no stir among the conspirators who are, I at least am certain, here. He is both a colonel of the White Guard, and a member of the House and Family, and with virtually the entire Family joining the celebrations, Alain is expected to be in attendance. The fact he heads Imperial Security is not generally known.

  He also doesn’t really believe I’m going to fuck this up personally, if anything happens, but he has no such certainty about the other necessary participant in this plan. Neither do I. May the Goddess eternally damn Niallan for that necessity.

  With a perfectly formal bow that is again only in his eyes, Alain turns and leaves. The aisle that opens up for him is far wider than for the two men and the over-dressed, heavy woman walking side by side a few moments earlier. Prey, potential or actual, has an instinctive sense of when to avoid predator, even when it is not actually hunting. That instinct is obviously in full force down there. The ragged space stays empty for just a few beats longer, before the prey comes out of hiding, and begins pretending again to be a predator.

  I lift the goblet. Take another sip. I wonder why I am being so genteel as to sip.

  That moment of interest and amusement over, I let my eyes wander, identifying some of the members of High Houses or Families who excel at crushing. Although, if truth, that rarity in the upper ranks, be told, any member of a High House or Family who does not excel at crushing does not maintain power or prestige for long. They apply this talent among themselves, and with even greater fervor against the Lower Houses and Families. They were shocked and appalled and titillated, and some were undoubtedly enraged when the representatives of the sole Lower Family with an invitation, the Family whose representatives I invited, arrived tonight.

  Another sip.

  And despite the stain on their enjoyment caused by that Lower Family’s presence, they can tell themselves that at least there are no commoners present. First, none are foolish enough to aspire to these heights, and second, they would never be allowed through the outer gates, much less all the way inside to mingle with the Illoraeni elite. As they think of themselves.

  Regrettably, the thought of summoning the Sword, running down the stairs, and slashing wildly about for a while, is only a drink-fueled fantasy. I gulp from the goblet this time. Perhaps that will help fuel other fantasies, create another reality, a better reality.

  I doubt it.

  Earlier, I danced and talked and smiled and lied my way through my duty to Father, and to the Kingdom and Empire. Or at least as much of that unicorn shit as I was willing to tolerate. I escaped to this refuge in plain sight, because still...I must be seen.

  Damn Niallan.

  I see him below. Stare at him until he looks up, and I quickly glance away, “not wanting” to be caught watching him so intently. I of course make sure that I am “caught” by at least some of those in the ballroom. The poor (fucking arrogant) besotted (about time his pedestal got smashed) prince has been hooked (hopefully gutted) at last.

  Another fucking swallow. Thank the Goddess for large goblets.

  And Goddess-bless, for a little while longer I am safe here. The three who might directly compel me to join those dances again—Father, mother, Aunt i’Sylvara—are nowhere in sight. I check once more, and see none of their minions heading this way to compel me by indirect, delivered demand. I smile pleasantly at precisely nothing, and the smile never reaches my eyes. Even with the smile, none of these will dare approach me without permission. I am confident that all the lessons I have taught on the subject of “Don’t fucking bother the fucking insert-one-of-his-titles-here unless he fucking asks you to” have been learned and learned very well. Not learning that lesson can be dangerous; not necessarily life-threatening, merely painful.

  I tilt the goblet for another swallow. Such a delicate drinker tonight, when a single swallow is preferable. And so much faster.

  If I ever knew what the wine is, I’ve forgotten. But at least the goblet is carved lyrium, fucking crest and all, instead of the delicate crystal everyone else is drinking out of. If I lose my temper (please! Goddess, let it happen, only a little, just a bit, not hint of Rage at all, just to take the edge off) I can throw it far, fast and hard. It will bounce, or bend or flatten if the surface it hits is hard enough, but it won’t shatter. Eighth drunk, quarter, half, all drunk, I can still avoid soft flesh if I decide to throw it and narrowly miss someone, anyone, who has thoroughly annoyed me lately.

  But that would be Niallan. And he is out of range. For now.

  Hopefully I will remember to thank Aunt Sylvara for stocking the goblets, or Heran for bringing them from home. While I cannot avoid remembering everything I see and hear and sense, I can with enough focused effort blur those memories by applying a thick, thick coating of alcohol. Although if I succeed in getting drunk enough to accomplish that, neither of them may well be speaking to me tomorrow.

  Damn Niallan.

  The pressure is building and I want to hurt someone. I can’t hurt myself, not here, not now. I can’t hurt Niallan, not only not here and not now, but not at all since I gave him my fucking word. But I need something to take the fucking edge off.

  I look around the room below, not really seeing anything, but still hoping that looking will somehow provide me with a solution.

  Jerril

  My wandering has been...interesting. A detour to the garden for a brief look at the famous maze, or just its entrance, and the equally famous warning sign. Then back inside to weave my way through the crowded rooms and eventually here, nursing the one glass of wine I allow myself before a performance. Her Highness (or her steward) has superb taste. A vintage Tarsinia, the servito
r said. I certainly wouldn’t know.

  As I wandered and weaved I began to wonder if there was an invisible-to-me sign around my neck that says, “Commoner. Beware.” These members of the High Houses and Families are as arrogant, if not more so, than rumor, and the Guild representative who urged me to take the job despite my inexperience with the intrigues of a major court, told me.

  I don’t have their wealth, or their kind of power, but I do have Her Gift of music, and that is a kind of power in its own right. As they will learn. And since She gave me free will, and the will be free, I will exercise that will and starting with the first note from the new High Bard’s lute, the first note out of the new High Bard’s mouth, I will enjoy watching the reactions. Of those who looked at me with disdain or contempt. Of those who inquired of their neighbors, just loud enough for me to hear as well, how I managed to sneak in. Of those who muttered something uncomplimentary, albeit very, very quietly, about the deterioration, undoubtedly brought about by great age, in Her Highness’ recognition of what is due not only her rank but to theirs—inviting a commoner to the Summer Ball, indeed!

  Though not all of the arrogance was directed at me. There was the other commoner. He isn’t really, since he is a member of one of the Lower Houses, but still, they were sneering, he is so very, very common. However, the Prince invited the man, and to pile insult on top of insult, the man’s family as well. Of course, one cannot insult the Prince by treating the man as he so obviously deserves, because, well, insulting the Prince is just too dangerous for one’s health—personal, social, perhaps just breathing.

  I even got a glimpse of the man, heard a few words of his conversation. Given the screaming, well beyond over-the-top, red of his clothing, he is probably the man the Chief Steward mentioned. He is certainly pretty, well-built, and eminently fuckable. If all you want is a talented hole. I am absolutely certain both his holes are not only talented but well-used. Very well-used. But still, he is here at the Prince’s command, or because of the man’s hole-based wheedling, or both, and I heard a snippet of gossip about the ostentatious giving of the gaudy medallion, so the Chief Steward’s closing “red” remark makes even less sense now than it did when he first said it.

  Ah, well, it isn’t as if my life here, assuming I am allowed to stay, is going to require me to be at all concerned about who the Prince fucks and how well and how often.

  I take a sip and look around. A fat woman, drooling diamonds, appears to think I am looking at her. She attempts to put me in my place with a lifted eyebrow (which is really both eyebrows) and the cut direct of turning her back.

  I give her back a tiny salute. With my glass, not my finger. I hope she will be in one of the tiers around the dance floor when I am introduced. Better yet, just starting to swallow a drink.

  When she realizes she has insulted the King-Emperor and Queen-Empress.

  Insulting either of them, much less both at once, is not a good idea. The Chief Steward was astute enough to send me a chest of carefully marked teaching crystals. According to the lessons on Royal and Imperial protocol I studied, crammed actually, on the way to the Throne World, at least when I wasn’t emptying my guts over the rail or in my cabin during that storm, an insult, overt or covert, to an appointee of the Crown, is an insult to their Majesties.

  I now give myself leave to enjoy their expressions the next time I see them up close, instead of as an audience member. When that time comes, and I will ensure that it does, I am certain they will be wondering if I will mention, if I have mentioned, the insults to their Majesties, and what the consequences will be. I won’t, of course. If I am insulted again, I will deal with it myself. But they do not need to know that just yet.

  For now, I have found a quiet spot. My back to a pillar, not all that far from the dance floor I have already viewed as I circled round the tiers. A quiet spot to observe...the man on the balcony.

  DarkFire

  No solution from the look around, but there was that flash of red. Not Niallan red, but flame colored hair.

  It reminds me.... I call up the memory, but only to watch it stream by, not remember it. A young Abbott of the Order of Seren, with hair above and below almost as vivid as the head just seen, who bent and bared multiple times that night in his chambers in the abbey he had been sent to open on Elnyr. Thank Goddess the Goddess abhors celibacy in Her priests. He was a very good fuck. Indeed, now that I think of it, every one of the men with shades of flame in their hair has been very good in bed over the years. Or wherever else we happened to have sex.

  Sex.

  Of course.

  Fucking.

  Goddess damn! That will definitely do it. Surely, somewhere in this damned filled-to-overflowing palace there is a handsome servitor—well, Hells, he doesn’t have to be all that handsome at all—willing to take a break from his duties, get half naked in a dark hallway or storeroom, or even a bit of deep shadow, and let me ram my cock up inside him and fuck him briefly senseless. Stress relief for the earlier interrupted fuck and no coming. For the anger...and...the rest. A bit of Rage management, that’s all. No one will know.

  Yes, an excellent idea.

  No. It’s an incredibly stupid idea. Even for me.

  It must be drunk out tonight.

  My absence would be noted. Hells, remarked on, discussed, spreading by voice and link inside the palace until someone recalls the precise moment of my departure from the ballroom, plus my direction, the expression on my face, and whether my cock is as noticeable as usual, or more so. Someone else will notice a servitor’s disappearance in the same direction, followed by the inevitable discovery. Although it would be bad enough for Aunt Sylvara to hear of the prince vanishing with a servitor for the most obvious of reasons, the way this night has been going, it will be not one, but both of them who find out. The man, whoever he is, who must be misled if this plan is to work, and Father. The former finding out leads to the failure of the plan and the bastard’s escape. The latter finding out leads to that whole King-Emperor speech about upholding the dignity of the Crown, the House and the Family. Plus the inevitable “You’re far too old for this sort of thing.”

  Then after this fucking night is fucking over, oh mighty King and Emperor, if I am such an embarrassment to Crown, House and Family, send me the Hells away, Goddess damn it!

  Ah. That’s right. He is.

  There is a problem on Dorvil that no one in the entire Royal and Imperial diplomatic corps can resolve, a problem that requires no violence, just the delicate touch of the Warlord. And it’s only sixteen Gates and eight months each way. A year gone in travel alone, plus whatever time I am compelled to spend there, unless, of course, he finds another vital mission on which to send me without allowing me to return home.

  I squeeze my hand and the goblet begins to collapse. I stop before I destroy it and waste whatever wine is left.

  I briefly consider finding that hallway or storeroom or shadow for an alternative to fucking—a quick stroking, spilling myself onto one of the only-the-finest-will-do Tessarian silk napkins that she had specially designed for the ball. Then a wipe, a rearranging, a crumple, a toss. It certainly isn’t as if I haven’t done it before, when I was indeed young and hard and not drunk at all. It was Tanil’s fault. An “older” man of twenty-five or thirty, with bulges in all the best places, a recent recruit to the House Guard who would have been beheaded if he’d actually done to me, with me, all the very inventive things I fantasized about as I stroked in the shadows of that other balcony, looking down on him as he stood immobile at the gate, on duty in the early autumn chill, totally unaware of the copious spurting he was causing two stories up. But all that was before.... No. I won’t go there. I will not call up that memory.

  So. No servitor fucking. No stroking where I might be caught, or even where I wouldn’t. Perhaps a fight. Excellent stress relievers, fights.

  But that would change tonight from the prestigious Summer Ball of her Royal and Imperial Highness into one of those “DarkFire par
ties.” And I promised her I wouldn’t.

  I lift the goblet. Notice a slight line of blood on my palm, and drops on the crest. A final swallow, if that tiny bit of moisture can be called a swallow, and the rest of it is gone.

  I have no need for anything so crass as even an understated signal like holding the goblet out to the side and turning it upside down, or looking around with a “Where in the Hells is a servitor when you need one?” expression. Someone’s eyes are always on me. Goddess bless Aunt Sylvara for her well-trained servitors. I don’t bother looking at him as he tops it off. Before I lift it, I check my hand. No tremors, not even the slightest sloshing of the wine. I have a long way to go if I am to succeed in finishing the night in a haze of alcohol-obscured memories.

  Just a sip.

  I am running out of alternatives.

  A war would cure this restlessness; this always simmering anger that has gradually heated until it is nearly at, nearly past the point at which it boils over and begins to burn anyone near. The Sword would enjoy that, along with the anger, the Rage, and the the deaths that would follow. Hells, I would enjoy a good battle right now. Preferably tonight. Where is an enemy of the Kingdom and Empire when you need one?

  But the Kildani insurrection was two years ago and the memories—of the battles, the capture of the corrupt viceroy who’d spawned it all, the feel of the Sword as it rejected the woman’s soul and allowed itself to be used merely for execution—have gone stale. Unfortunately, I have enough honor left that I cannot simply Gate somewhere and provoke even a small invasion.

  Odd. I am willing to shame my honor and my House by vanishing, perhaps well enough to never be found, or to be found dead by my own hand. But not take the easier route of letting myself be killed in battle.

  But in the battle that is already under way tonight, against an unknown enemy, no, a group of enemies whose names I do not yet know, I am, thanks to Niallan’s stupid tendency to blurt things out, forewarned and in no real danger.