At His Majesty's Pleasure Ch. 13

Her inquiry was the same for every man.

"Why should I choose you?"

"Because I am quickest. My blade moves faster than any mortal eye can follow, every swing a viper's strike. Allow me to represent Your Majesty!"

"And you?"

"Because I've endured more than any man here, Your Majesty. In my lifetime I have weathered two wars and more battles than I can count. This fight will not be any different."

"And you?"

"Because I know the value of hard labor, Your Majesty! I practice day and night to hone my body, striving to rid myself of its imperfections. No other man here has trained half as hard, nor desires victory more."

"And you?"

"Because I'll win."

Alais blinked. They had come to the last gladiator in the lineup, and none before him had been so succinct.

The brown-eyed man with matching locks tied behind his head grinned at her in a friendly fashion, shrugging (almost apologetically) as if he could not help but state the truth. He was taller than average, but certainly smaller than Titus; his build was lithe and muscular, but seemingly no more so than his competitors, his skin bronzed from the sun. Was it mere bravado? She studied him, but found nothing in his countenance that suggested self-importance - on the contrary, he appeared markedly more relaxed than his impassioned cohorts.

She arched her brow at him. "Your name?"

"Septimus Marius Marcellus," he answered. His accent emphasized the consonants with a distinctly northern flavor, and indeed, his hair was kept long in the Naician tradition. At Eleanor's affronted look, he cleared his throat. "Your Majesty."

"And what makes you think you'll win, then?"

"Never lost a fight."

The gladiator next to him - a Tullus Lestia - snorted in disbelief. He only ventured to speak, however, when Alais turned to him. "It only takes a look at him to see the lie, Your Majesty. He has little by way of scars."

It was true. Septimus bore only a few faint marks, whitened from the passage of time, in contrast to the heavy scarring of the other gladiators.

Septimus only grinned again, though, appearing unruffled. (He seemed oddly cheerful for a person in his position.) "Rather makes it all the more impressive, doesn't it?"

Alais raised her bejeweled hand to cover a laugh. "Did you run from your fights, perhaps?" she said, with some light cheek. "I suppose there is no losing if no battles were to be had in the first place."

Belatedly, she thought this might have come off as more insulting than intended, when her target was a gladiator - were not fighting and honor the most important things in their lives?

Septimus was surprised, but he laughed as amiably as before. "Wouldn't that be yet more impressive? Being able to flee the arena - now that would be quite a feat."

Alais gave him another look over, squinting a little. "I suppose. Well, you've given me a lot to think about. I suppose I'll just go and - reflect some more, then."

Her handmaidens followed her as she stepped away.

Fiona was quick to speak. "I don't like him, Your Majesty. He does not appear to be taking this seriously."

"Perhaps not," said Alais. "But that is not necessarily a fault."

Fiona frowned, but was interrupted as the thin figure of Bartholomew converged on them. "Has Your Majesty made a decision?" he cheerily inquired. "By all means!"

Alais hesitated, looking back at the row of gladiators. Titus would be the safe choice. Titus made dwarves of everyone else. Titus could probably crush her if he stepped hard enough (that was to say, not very hard at all). But there was Septimus and his simple confidence - a confidence that seemed to somehow weigh more than all the fervent promises the other gladiators threw at her. She was reminded of an old adage: the man who bellows loudest of his power is the one least powerful.

He could have been arrogant, of course, or worse, a fool. But he did not appear to have the disposition of either. Alais generally prided herself in her readings of people (with the one major exception of a charming 'Duke Adrian'), and her intuition here was to believe him. Besides, he was by far the most... even-tempered of them, and that had to count for something, right?

"Yes," she answered, making up her mind. "I choose Septimus - the one at the very end there."

Bartholomew's brows shot up, so high she thought they might be in danger of retreating into his hairline. "Ah, I see. Are you certain, Your Majesty? Would you not consider, say, Titus?" he gestured at the beast of a man. "Sometimes there is no shame in the obvious choice."

Eleanor frowned vaguely. "Begging your pardon, my lord, but is not the Queen to remain uninfluenced by others in this choice?"

"Oh, of course, of course. No influence intended. I merely meant to make sure she is certain. You see..." Bartholomew sighed, but continued, "Septimus was something of a last minute addition, and I did not subject him to the same, ah, rigors as the others. I would not want Your Majesty's champion to perform poorly as a result of this inadvertent oversight. So due to the risk, perhaps another - "

"What's this about an oversight?"

The King had returned, his discussion concluded. Her handmaidens stepped aside as drew before them, towering over her and Bartholomew alike.

Bartholomew looked unpleasantly surprised. She noticed how his fingers twitched, before he clasped his hands loosely behind his back. "Poor choice of words on my part, Your Majesty," he said, making to offer a conciliatory smile. "I merely meant that Septimus is less experienced in a formal arena than the others, and I have not had a chance to witness him in such a setting. I had not imagined that Her Majesty might choose - "

"I was under the impression that you selected the finest of warriors, Bartholomew," said the King. "What was it that you kept saying - each of these gladiators is worth ten of my soldiers?" He spoke mildly, even casually, but this did not have a calming effect on the other man. "I hope you haven't been misrepresenting the quality of your stock."

"Not at all," said Bartholomew, quickly. "Septimus here is the greatest of warriors. A diamond among rocks! I had seen him fight, in passing, and the sight was so inspiring that I made purchase immediately. Such form! Such agility! It is only he is relatively new to the arena, and therefore a risk - "

"Risk is inherent in this tradition," said the King breezily. "Have him declared champion." He turned his smile on Alais, the expression a little wry. "I want to see if my wife has brought a blessing upon us."

"Very - very well," said Bartholomew, unable to protest further in the face of this command.

She did pity him, a little. If her champion performed poorly, she had an idea of whom it would reflect on.

Still, Batholomew's previous reluctance disappeared as he stepped atop the raised table. "My lords and ladies! The Queen has chosen her champion!" he declared. Taking the hand of the grinning Septimus, he raised it high before them all. "I give you - Septimus Marius Marcellus!"

*

As preparations were made for the battle, all took to their assigned seating upon the royal table. She and the King were given the positions of honor, of course, at the very center. There were also those she was already acquainted with: Princess Adeline and her two sons sat to the King's right. A seat and setting had also been ceremonially reserved for Prince Cassius, though the King's brother was not in attendance. The absentee Prince even had a plate and chalice arranged for him, and so forlorn was the sight that even Alais found herself missing his company. She had liked Cassius, from what little she remembered of him.

But most of her new family were strangers to her and required introduction. There was, first of all, Adeline's husband, a Duke Randall of Skepye. Randall was a handsome and friendly enough fellow, younger than she expected, and seemed happy to defer to the opinions of his wife. There was also Duke Boris, the King's paternal uncle, a man of heavyset proportions and substantial size (and more substantial thirst for wine). Countess Lucille was, in comparison, a thinly drawn lady, frail and fair, and it was no surprise that she was the King's aunt from the other side of the family. Their dispositions could also not be more different; whereas Boris was generous with his hearty laughter, Lucille's face seemed permanently fixed in a slightly sour pout. Lucille's son made up the last of the table - a Count Gavin, of tall and shapely build with hair of gold like his mother, though remarkably more good-humored than she. Besides being the King's cousin, he also introduced himself as the Spymaster.

"The battle isn't to the death, right?" questioned Alais, once they'd all settled in. It had taken her handmaidens some careful wrangling to fan the long train of her gown around her. She didn't doubt the effect was flattering, but it did make it more difficult to move without disturbing the delicate arrangement; she settled for sitting quite still.

"Death is not necessarily required," said the King, "on this occasion."

This didn't explain much, but fortunately Count Gavin was more forthcoming. "Incapacitation or surrender is enough," he explained. "Though it is not uncommon for injuries to be grievous, given the - shall we say - passion of the fighters." He offered a smile. "Though I'm sure your champion will be hardy enough to weather the onslaught, and earn the blessings of the Gods for his troubles."

Alais felt a seed of discomfort lodge in her stomach. She had barely met Septimus, but he was oddly likable - he did not deserve to die because she had singled him out as a target for the others. He had claimed he could win, but what if he was a fool?

Duke Boris chortled into his drink. "Ah! How fickle our Gods are, to award lifelong happiness on the flip of a coin," he said, jovially blasphemous. "Eh?"

The King didn't seem to take offense; he only smiled rather indulgently. "I like to think it is more than the flip of a coin, Uncle," he replied. "I have faith in our Queen's intuition."

"Very much so!" contributed Randall.

As usual, she couldn't tell if the King was being serious.

From her high perch, she could see the gladiators being stationed at different corners of the makeshift fighting pit (the cleared out space that had previously been the viewing area). Their noble guests had returned to their seating on the other side - the rest must have filtered in in the meantime, for not a single of the three hundred seats remained empty, so far as she could see. She felt many sets of eyes upon her, and could only be grateful that most of them were too far away to observe for certain.

Alais looked away in time to see Titus testing the heft of what looked to be a sword as large as she was tall. Septimus was a few feet away, looking calm as ever (she wondered again how he could not even be slightly nervous). Each of them was being distributed a weapon and shield; she noted the distinct absence of armor.

"At least they all seemed very eager, these..." She was about to say gladiators, but recollected the formal name for the occasion. "These bride berserkers. Are they - "

"'Bride berserkers,' was it?" inquired Boris. He laughed in a jolly fashion, as he poured more wine into her goblet. "Ah, I have not heard that one yet! Your Majesty has a knack for names. Bride berserkers, indeed they are. Ohoho!"

"It does have a certain ring to it, doesn't it? Do you often come up with such inspired names?" said the King, innocently.

But he was the one who has said that that was the name of - oh. Her confusion must have lasted for a fraction of a second before a quickly dawning realization nearly compelled her to flush. It was only a light-hearted, casual flustering compared to the events of their shared nights, but the lapse in her composure could be felt to a keen sense nonetheless. Her eyes lowered to her plate for a moment, before she centered herself with a breath.

Of all the childish pranks... She looked to the the King, who raised his eyebrows at her, as if he'd had absolutely no share in the appellation himself. He was clearly amused though, and not at all ashamed.

If she had to be honest with herself, it was a little funny. And the mischief of it was boyish in a way that was almost disarming.

Toward Boris, she directed a soft-humored smile, even a laugh which might have passed for congenial. In spite of all his teasings, he was vaguely reminiscent of a fat saint who bestowed presents to well-behaving children during the Yuletide. It was almost impossible to be cross with him. Was he really from the same family that spawned the King?

Speaking of which, her gaze cooled noticeably as it flitted back toward her husband on the other side of her, lips falling back into a humorless line. "Actually," she started, squinting at him incredulously. "It was His Majesty who thought of it. Either he does not recall his Majestic ingenuity, or he's making fun of me."

"Alexander, you're terrible," said Adeline, from his other side. She bounced little Edward on her lap, trying to quiet his protests of hunger. She flashed a smile at her sister-in-law. "You shouldn't tease poor Alais so!"

When her head ducked forward to catch the Princess' smile a bit farther off to the side, Alais smiled in turn, the sweetness in her returning all at once. "He also came up with wedding warriors." Personally, Alais liked Bride Berserkers a touch more.

The King was smirking, not looking too miffed that she had turned it back to him. "Yes, I'm the guilty culprit," he conceded. "I certainly apologize for leading you astray. But, to be fair, you were the one who believed me."

"Terrible," muttered Alais.

Her gaze wandered, absentmindedly distracted by a frantic waving from one of the nearer tables of nobles.

It was Duchess Evangeline of Toussaint, she who was mistress of poor Ser Emille and all those other knights who'd futilely attempted rescues. She had the glisten of weeping in her eyes as she waved her bright purple handkerchief with particular vigor. Alais stared back, before finally managing to wiggle her hands (with some semblance of gracefulness) in return. In the middle distance, Evangeline touched her heart with her sleeve - and blew back a tearful kiss. Perhaps one that was meant to be taken as a blessing of some sort.

"You invited my cousin?" she heard herself ask, almost baffled by the sight - as though she didn't quite believe what she was saying. "Why is she crying?"

"Oh, yes," the King recollected, following her gaze to the cousin in question. He looked amused. "Are you not delighted to see her? I thought you must have been close, given the persistent dedication of her knights to your rescue. I half-expected her to bring a full squadron to the feast."

"That isn't what I was worried about," murmured Alais, sinking into her seat with a resigned expression. Knowing Evangeline, the true gravity of...just about everything about this marriage (and about their presence in Obsivia overall) would be lost on her utterly. It was, in a sense, also a bit of a hidden blessing, so perhaps she'd been the best choice after all.

Those who were keen of hearing might have picked up the distant cries of the Toussaint table from all the rest: in particular, Evangeline's "My little girl is all grown up!" and the various consolations of "There there..." humming out from her accompanying ladies and lords.

"I say," said Boris, the sight of the delicately sobbing Duchess having quite taken him aback. He was quite tall - a trait that seemed to run in Alexander's family - which allowed him to peer quite easily over the heads of all these lesser nobles, at the Pearl of Toussaint that glimmered past them. He lowered his goblet for the first time since he sat down (there had been nothing uncivil in his introductions, and to the contrary he had been openly friendly, but his attentions had been quickly claimed by the fine wines before them). But now, he only had eyes for one. "I say. But what is ailing that handsome woman, that she weeps so? She must care deeply for Your Majesty?"

The Duchess was on the more curvaceous side of 'handsome,' with full cheeks and a fuller set of bosoms to match.

"A rather effusive display," sniffed Countess Lucille.

"She is a very..." Alais considered how to put it. "Sensitive woman."

Here, their conversation dwindled, as Bartholomew once again took command of the stage. "My lords and ladies!" He looked upon the sea of nobles before him, and then above in the balconies. "You are about to feast your eyes upon the clash of titans! Behold! Before you stands your fighters - each with the might of ten men, and the courage of twenty! Taken from the farthest reaches of the kingdom, and all brought before you on this auspicious day!"

He turned to gesture grandly at the ten warriors situated within.

"I give you... Titus!"

A smattering of claps sounded, as Titus heaved his sword into the air and rattled it with a roar.

"Tullus!"

More claps.

"Gallio! Kaeso! Everard! Gnaeus! Ulric! Alethius! Steris!"

Bartholomew paused, with dramatic intention. "And finally, the Queen's chosen champion - Septimus!"

Septimus stepped forward, throwing his arms high and grinning broadly at the applauding audience. When he looked to the royal table - to her - his grin seemed, if possible, to grow even wider.

"In honor of King Alexander and Queen Alais, the glory of Obsivia, and the Gods themselves!" Here, Bartholomew bowed deferentially towards them. "May the battle be as magnificent as this day's joyous union."

Joyous indeed, though Alais dryly.

As he stepped aside, the crowds quieted and the gladiators settled into fighting stances. She caught a flash of unease on Bartholomew's features once the performance was over and he was back to the side - clearly anxious that his handpicked men perform as promised.

A thick tension settled over the room, and she could spy a few of the lower aristocracy craning their necks for a better view.

The King took a casual sip from his chalice, before setting it aside.

"Begin," he commanded.

At once, Titus bellowed and charged in the direction of Septimus, weapon at the ready. He wasn't the only one, either - others converged with the same intent, singling out the champion the way her handmaidens had forewarned.

But Septimus was not waiting for them. He shifted into motion himself, clashing his shield into his first attacker as he went - as the man stumbled back, he rammed the pommel of his sword toward the other's temple in one fluid movement. Gasps sounded from the crowd, as well as light applause.

"Such swiftness," Randall remarked, leaning forward in his seat.

Alais was inclined to agree. She knew little of swordplay (and less of gladiator-style battle), but still she could tell that Septimus was possessed of an uncanny speed; even as his opponent fell, he had already sidestepped to surge forward. But could it be enough, when he was surrounded on all sides?

Tullus was next, but Septimus merely evaded his blows and slipped past him. Two more assailants were given the same treatment - he barrelled past without engagement, at one point dropping to a roll to avoid contact.

"What is he doing?" said Duke Gavin, curiously. "He does not fight?"

Lucille tittered. "Perhaps our 'champion' grows fearful."

"No," said the King. He watched the proceedings with a thoughtful eye. "He grows cunning."

Lucille furrowed her brows in confusion, but it only took Alais a moment longer to trace Septimus's intended destination and reach an understanding of her own.

Once he reached the eastern end of the room, he righted himself immediately, shifting into a defensive position with the wall at his back.