by Ari Marmell
Tonight, finally, Nycolos was ready—or, if nothing else, he was ready enough, and had decided he could afford to put this off no longer.
In the hours before evening, he rehearsed his performance with Smim, touching on everything he knew he must convey. He ruthlessly squelched his prideful inner objections, and what portion he could not suppress he channeled instead into those details of his story that he believed a real human, the true Nycolos, would have found intolerable. Done properly, it would make tonight all the more convincing. Done wrong… Well, he simply wouldn’t do it wrong.
Preparing himself through intense mental effort and several glasses of wine, he called for his servants to bathe him thoroughly until his dark complexion practically shone; to comb any lingering tangles from his hair, and trim his beard back to a thin, stylish length; to oil and perfume his body until a casually sniffing hound might not recognize him as a living mammal.
With their assistance he donned his most formal garb: supple boots of leather, tightly laced; sky-blue tunic with trousers of black; burgundy kaftan with fine gold trim. He even belted on his scabbard, wearing his finest sabre not because he anticipated needing it, but for the extra air of ceremony it conveyed.
He left a wake of gossiping pages and gentry behind him, as he’d known he would, but he paid them no heed. And then, finally, he arrived at the entrance to the dining hall and waited for one of the servants to announce him.
Everyone already seated turned his way, and all were clearly shocked not merely to see him, but to see him in his current state. Some were better at hiding it than others, but more than a few stared openly or began to whisper against the cheeks of their neighbors at the table.
The rest of the guests filtered in over several minutes, adding their own gazes or lowered voices to the throng, until finally Denuel Jarta called for silence so that Prelate Domatir might offer the usual suppertime prayer.
Nycolos waited until the invocation was complete, then rose from his seat before the servants could begin to serve the appetizers. He bowed, first to the table around him and then, far lower and more extravagantly, in the direction of the royal table.
“If it please his Majesty,” he said, “I recognize that this is somewhat irregular, but I beg permission to address my king, and this assembly.”
The hall grew so silent that everyone present could hear the steam rising from the servants’ waiting platters. Several of the gathered nobles and officers leaned unconsciously forward, eager to listen—Marshal Laszlan chief among them, though not without a quick word in the king’s ear.
“Speak, Sir Nycolos,” Hasyan answered. “You’ve our permission.”
Nycolos didn’t begin instantly, instead walking past his dinner companions to stand before the royal table itself, where he dropped to one knee. “Thank you, Your Majesty. If I might… I’ve no grounds to ask favors of anyone, after the past weeks, but I beseech you to send the servants and guards from the hall, for just a few moments. What I’ve to say is… not merely difficult, but humiliating. I would keep it among my peers and my betters, if you’ll permit it.”
That required a bit of discussion between the king, the Crown Marshal, and the other counselors and advisors, but again—perhaps sensing the importance of what was to come—his Majesty acquiesced. After a polite scramble, the room was cleared of everybody not of noble breeding or high office.
Only then did Nycolos rise once more, take a deep and steadying breath that was only partly theater, and begin.
“Many of you were present in the court, the day I returned and told the tale of my journey to the Outermark Mountains and my battle with the wyrm Tzavalantzaval. The rest of you have, I am quite certain heard the same tale—probably several versions of it—from those who were there.
“It will also come as news to none of you that my behavior since that day has been inexcusable. Rude. Boorish. Unbefitting any human being with a sliver of pride, let alone a man of my station.”
Several of his audience were nodding or otherwise silently voicing their acknowledgment of his assessment. A few, Lady Mariscal included, kept their faces down, examining the table rather than looking his way.
Balmorra Zas, court astrologer to Hasyan III, also nodded, but she wore the faintest traces of a expectant smile, as if she’d known this was coming. And perhaps she had.
“If any of you have done the math,” Nycolos said, “you might have noted that, even allowing for the vagaries of travel, my story leaves several weeks, even up to a couple of months, unaccounted for. Perhaps, if you noticed it at all, you assumed that time was eaten by a variety of minor pauses and inconveniences, and by the difficulties of traveling while injured.
“Some of it was. My wounds were—are—more severe than I let on in court. Only the chirurgeons have known how much so. I didn’t wish people to worry, or to look on me with… pity.”
A very few expressions had lost some degree of hostility, and Mariscal finally looked his way, though most faces still wore masks of neutrality at best, and often dislike. Thus far, what he had said might elicit some measure of sympathy, but still explained little of his behavior.
Nycolos took another deep breath, returned to his place long enough to pour himself a small gullet-wetting drink.
“It was just after I had slain the dragon and lost Wyrmtaker, no more than several days later. My injuries were at their worst, and I had survived even that long only with the help of Smim. And then someone found us. A wagon, deep in the Outermark where few honest travelers have cause to go.
“It was no rescue. We were found, and we were taken. By Mahdreshan slavers.”
Gasps, of horror and of sudden fury, sounded around the table. Kortlaus’s skin flushed with deep anger, and Mariscal dropped the spoon she had been toying with.
“We were kept, caged, with many others. And then we were sold, traded off like beasts. Smim and I spent… I’m not certain how long. Weeks, if not more, at forced labor in an Ythani mine, in the northern Outermark Mountains.”
A dozen nobles spoke at once, voicing their outrage, but Nycolos raised a hand. “They treated my wounds, enough that I was able to work, enough that I was worth the pittance of food they offered.
“We were worked to exhaustion. Whipped frequently. It wasn’t the pain of the lash, you understand. Pain, I can tolerate. But to be treated as less than a beast, after—however close, however painful—the greatest victory of my life? A man of my station? It was intolerable, it was… dishonorable. Humiliating.
“I grew paranoid. Many of the slaves would turn on one another, in hopes of currying favor with the overseers—several of whom were, themselves, all too eager for any excuse to dole out punishment. Danger lurked in the mines, as well, for Tzavalantzaval was far from the only inhuman creature to dwell within the Outermark Mountains.
“I survived, in part, thanks to what few friends I had. Smim, yes, but several others amongst the slaves as well. Friends I lost, friends I couldn’t save, once we finally escaped and fled into the Outermark. Nor was our escape even of my doing, for we merely took advantage of an attack on the camp by some of those creatures from within the mountain’s deepest caves.”
Half truth, half lies; details he omitted, or altered to fit the narrative he needed to convey. And yet, as he spoke, Nycolos felt a small portion of the weight he carried lift from off his shoulders, from within his gut and within his soul. Telling the tale aloud, even an obfuscated and twisted echo of it, was a balm on a hurt he had not realized he still bore.
“I was…” His voice didn’t crack—he had more control than that—but it definitely flexed a bit. “I was ashamed. I didn’t feel I deserved my freedom, didn’t feel I had done all I should for those who had stood by me in my suffering. I didn’t… remember how to trust. Didn’t know how to regain my pride. And the result, well, was what you saw of me over the past weeks.
“I wasn’t ready to return, to resume my life here. I’d forgotten how. I should never have inflicted myself upon all
of you, not in that state. And for that, as much as for my behavior itself, I can scarcely begin to apologize.”
Mariscal wept openly as the magnitude of what he had endured sank in, as did several others who had been close to Nycolos in one way or another, or who were particularly tender-hearted. Others, voices raised or trembling with fury, spoke of retaliation against Ythane for daring to treat a knight of Kirresc so—and none seemed angrier on his behalf, surprisingly, than Dame Zirresca. Kortlaus stood, his chair almost tipping over, and wrapped his friend in a crushing embrace, one that Nycolos forced himself to return for a span before gently extricating himself.
He slowly walked back toward the royal table, briefly clutching hands with many of the diners who reached out to him as he passed, or exchanging nods and kind words. Everyone, it seemed, was horrified and deeply sympathetic. Sir Tivador shamefacedly apologized for his drunken actions of the festival day, and Andarjin expressed his own condolences for Nycolos’s travails.
Finally the knight dropped once more to one knee, but this time at a slight angle. Rather than facing his Majesty directly, he seemed to be kneeling to the narrow space between the king and Orban Laszlan.
“Crown Marshal, my behavior has reflected poorly on myself, and on my suitability for the position I’ve been striving for. If you wish me to, I will withdraw my candidacy for your office.”
Baron Kortlaus, still on his feet, instantly moved just behind and to one side of the kneeling knight, then lowered himself next to him. “Marshal Laszlan, Your Majesty. As one of Sir Nycolos’s competitors for the office, I ask that he permitted to continue his efforts, and to prove his sincerity.”
“That’s quite noble of you, my Lord,” the palatine, Denuel Jarta, said. “But you’re also well known to be a friend of Sir Nycolos, and I’m not certain that your recommendation in this matter is entirely—”
The hall erupted in a new round of murmuring as Dame Zirresca stood from her chair. Although her face was a flickering candle flame of vying emotions, her pace was steady and sure. She, too, knelt albeit on the other side of the table.
“As the other of Sir Nycolos’s competitors,” she announced, her tone steady and more than loud enough to carry, clearly and unmistakably, “I, too, ask that he be allowed to resume his efforts. Please, Marshal, don’t ask that he withdraw his candidacy. Not after all we’ve just heard.”
Nycolos was grateful, in that moment, that he must remain in his current posture until the king granted him permission to rise. Had he not been staring intently at the floor, he knew he couldn’t possibly have hidden his shock at the woman’s support.
Orban and King Hasyan conferred in their hushed tones. Finally, the king commanded all three to rise.
“Speaking up on Sir Nycolos’s behalf does each of you credit,” Orban said in his booming voice. “Please return to your seats.” Only when they both had done so—Kortlaus laying a brief hand on Nycolos’s shoulder as he stepped away—did the marshal continue. “Sir Nycolos.”
The knight straightened his shoulders. Whatever was about to occur, he felt confident that—for the first time in weeks—he’d done himself proud. It felt good to be working toward something again, rather than moping about, however justifiably.
“You have much to atone for, baronet. Not only your behavior since your return, but your unauthorized departure in the first place, to say nothing of taking—and losing—Wyrmtaker.”
“I do,” Nycolos agreed without protest.
“You’ll be doing penance and enduring punishment for some time. You understand this? You accept this?”
“I welcome it, Marshal Laszlan.”
“Excellent. Then let everyone present know that while you have a difficult road ahead, Sir Nycolos, if you can navigate it with the poise and honor for which you were once known, and if you can show us that you have learned from your experiences, you remain in consideration for the office of Crown Marshal when the day comes for me to step down.”
Again everyone spoke at once, but Nycolos was heartened to realize that, from several segments of the table, that susurrus was punctuated by applause and even a few vigorous cheers.
“You’ve fallen behind, son,” Orban said more softly, “but you’re not out of the race.”
Nycolos bowed low, and swept back to his chair, again clasping several hands on his way. Palatine Jarta called for the meal to (finally) commence, and the evening took a few steps back toward normal.
He returned Mariscal’s radiant smile, exchanged a few light comments with Kortlaus, but he knew well not everyone present would be pleased with this evening’s turn of events. Several supporters of other candidates scowled his way when they thought he wasn’t looking. He half expected to see the same from Margrave Andarjin, but saw only the man’s usual polite expression.
Or rather, that was almost all he saw. For an instant, the façade slipped, and Nycolos caught the briefest glimpse of the anger stirring beneath it—not when Andarjin looked his way, no, but when he turned once to face Zirresca.
Dissention in the ranks, is it? I believe I have just the right fellow in mind to peek into that…
___
“What in the name of Straigon’s missing jawbone is wrong with you?”
“First,” Zirresca said stiffly, “I’ll thank you not to swear by that name around me, or anywhere within Oztyerva’s walls. And second…” She glanced meaningfully at the fingers clasped with almost bruising intensity around her bicep, pressing the wrinkled sleeve of her gown into her skin. “Because you’re my friend, Arj, I’m going to offer you a chance to remove your hand from my arm before I remove it from yours.”
Andarjin’s mouth worked in silence, and it seemed as if the breeze of the thoughts whirling within was audible each time his lips opened. He was, however, wise enough to withdraw his hand, and he even managed a shallow smile.
“You’d threaten a margrave this way, Zirresca?”
“Not just any margrave. Lucky you.”
He chuckled, however forced. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have grabbed you. But we do need to discuss what happened at dinner.” He began to pace, though the small sitting room didn’t allow more than a few steps each way.
For her own part, Zirresca took a seat at the table. “And were your own expressions of sympathy so empty, Arj?” She sounded almost disappointed.
“They were expected. It would have been unseemly not to offer them. And anyway, no, not empty. What Nycolos endured was truly unfortunate. But acknowledging that is a far cry from supporting his return to the marshal’s good graces, or from sabotaging your own campaign for the office!”
Zirresca leaned over the table. “I’ve sabotaged nothing. I’m still the best candidate, and I still intend to be the next Crown Marshal.”
“But—”
“And even beyond his status as my rival, I’ve never much liked Sir Nycolos. You know that. But I would not wish what befell him on my worst enemy, and I will not stand in the way of a once-honorable man who seeks to regain that honor.
“Besides, I want to best him fairly and without doubt. It will strengthen my own position when I become marshal, and it will make him more likely to accept his defeat and the requirement of serving under me.”
“You becoming Crown Marshal is too important for our plans to leave to chance, Zirresca! We should be taking every advantage we can!”
“Me becoming Crown Marshal is too important for cheats or shortcuts, Arj. I will do it properly, and I won’t dishonor myself in the process.”
“We—”
“Shall we take the question to her Highness? See what Princess Firillia thinks, whose viewpoint she approves of?”
“No.” Andarjin’s scowl once more transformed itself back into his traditional polished cast. “That won’t be necessary. It is, after all, already done. For good or for ill.”
“Yes. It is.”
I suppose, Smim mused, ensconced and all but invisible in the deep shadows of the window alcove high above the argu
ing pair, it was too much to hope that they might feel the unnatural urge to explain these plans of theirs in exacting detail. Still and all, he’d learned much, more images to weave into the ever-growing tapestry that was the political and social landscape of Oztyerva.
At this rate, he might even learn enough to keep the master from stumbling blindly into something that, lingering draconic sorceries or not, might get him killed.
___
With each day of autumn’s passage and the steady approach of winter, the garden had grown less and less colorful. The best efforts of the palace groundskeepers, even with the tiny sprinkling of magic that rumor suggested they practiced, could only slow the inevitable deterioration. Blossoms were smaller, limper, less fragrant; leaves and stems browner; birds less frequent and less vocal in the denuded trees.
But here was where the margravine had wanted to meet, on a granite bench tucked away between fading crimson tulips—her favorite flower—on one side, and a marble statue of a centaur on the other. So here was where Nycolos, eager to rebuild bridges despite his bewilderment with certain aspects of the conversation, sat.
“…genuine than your last attempt at an apology,” Mariscal was saying. Having dismissed her ladies-in-waiting to stand far back, she leaned eagerly toward him from her side of the bench, both her hands clasped around one of his own. Yet there remained a fragility to her expression, however delighted. Even Nycolos, no expert on human interaction, recognized the need to tread carefully.
He wished, with hidden chagrin, that he understood more about this relationship he apparently had with Mariscal. His interactions with Kortlaus never seemed this fraught!
