chapter nine
Laen Abor, Godiian Ambassador to Siguard, sat in the cool dark that only an oversized room in an oversized palace with a narrow window high above any intervening, lesser neighboring structures could provide, and then only if one were naked and half seated in one's oversized bed, bare back to a colossal, ornately-carven headboard, with fine, thin sheets half covering one's lower extremities, and even then only if the moonlit breezes which ventured forth to cool the exposed flesh were welcome.
They were. He needed to cool down and get a grip on things. He never seemed to have enough time to wrap his will around his ever-changing thoughts, themselves capricious and variously wandering in and out of his consciousness in response to his ever-changing situation. And without his will, inflexible and adamant, he would surely be lost, forever a charlatan, an amusing but harmless chameleon. Expendable in every sense of the word.
And he needed to write. Two letters to two very different recipients back in his far-off homeland were long overdue. Such tardiness on either score could prove dangerous to further allow. He hated to write. No, that wasn't true. He loved to write; he hated to respond. No, correspond. The deadlines, the expectations, the bothersome need and drain on his resources. He rose naked even as he concluded that at least one of these letters could be put off no longer. Crossing the wide room, his hand found a contact on the wall above his desk, and pressed it gently. A soft, pale white light sprang forth from no specific point on the polished stone wall, but rather emanated softly, unobtrusive compared to the vast dark of the remainder of his chamber, from an area roughly half a span square above his desk. As always, he had to stop for a moment longer than he cared to admit to admire the handiwork of the Magicians of Ernesse. What Godii wouldn't give for such lights, and the commercial empire such conveniences might command. Or more precisely, Laen smiled as he sat and opened the long center drawer, what Godii wouldn't take for such treasures. Hence the high-flying Krysli.
With quill in hand, he paused one last instant. Which letter was most important now? Of course, he already knew the answer, had known it since earlier that evening, shortly after arriving at Councilor Kiand's lavish party. He dipped the quill into the well and bent to his task. As usual, once he had actually started his correspondence, the loathing seemingly vanished, confirming that in sooth, it was the starting of the letter which irked him the most. Once that hurdle was cleared, he was again in his element, bringing charm and goodwill from thought, past his vocal chords, and straight to the paper. He knew in his heart that he was a good man, and properly conveying this conviction was soothing to his sense of self. More soothed than any evening breeze could lay claim to, he wrote quickly, only pausing to refresh his quill, and only then because he must.
My dearest Kalandra,
I fear I must ask you to once again forgive the unforgivable, and bear without resentment the lateness of this letter. Know, if it might bring you some consolation, that I have thought of you each day we have been apart, longing for your company and the strength it lends me. Of course I know I would have faltered long ago without the long arms of your utter and undeserved devotion warding my every misstep. You are a blessing upon me, and I thank the Five Fathers you would look so kindly on such a wretch. Truly, I am not wholly blind, and know when I am surpassed. I humbly thank you for deigning to be my wife. I continue to strive to be somehow worthy of your immeasurable charms. One day, it is my fondest hope that I may at last be deemed fit to kneel before your high pedestal without shame.
I long for news of you, knowing that the longer I fail my duty and obligation to respond to you with timeliness and proper respect, the longer still until I might hear word of your heart, my dearest love, and how it fares in this strange world, so far removed are we. Rest assured it shall not always be so. Soon, sooner than it may seem, I will again be lost in gratitude and sheer joy in the only haven I have ever needed, the only office I would ever wish to hold, that is the sweet embrace of your arms.
I would kiss you now, if only I could. Even so, I kiss the empty darkness before me and amuse my fancy that you may, lying dreaming so many leagues distant, dream of being kissed by your loving husband, and be made in some small measure more glad and restful. Such is the hope of my enduring love for you, blessed wife. Breath itself is unremarkable and less dear, if you are not present to bear it witness.
Having so abased myself, will you not write at once, or as soon as you can kindly smile upon the effort, and tell me how you fare? Even the simplest account of the most mundane affairs of the day would please my ears more than all the horns and strings of all the troubadours of Jest. If you can spare an additional moment on my account, I would also greatly wish to know more of our son. He is growing into such a fine, strong young man. His strength and honor outpace that of the father to a degree that is simultaneously humbling and gratifying. Surely we can easily agree that his boundless virtue would stem more rightly from your precious family than my own? I pray that he is safe and most of all, happy beyond words. Tell me now, has he surpassed the tests? Do not think for a moment that I doubt it. He is a hardy lad, and has trained well, honing his already amazing skill to the sharpest detail. Attend, my dearest love, he shall be more than a mere soldier; he will become a great leader of men long before his peers. A moment. How inattentive of me. He, as you full well know, is without peer. In this, as in so many things, he takes after his mother.
I have nothing new to report from here. It is a humdrum existence in a blank estate surrounded by the morally corrupt citizens of our sometime adversaries. They build beautiful cities, they compose wondrous works of art, they perform amazing theater, and are indeed a rich culture, save that they have no morality, and instead celebrate its absence. Would that they could be enlightened, as the proud peoples of our fair land are, and have been ever, and I would think I had found a paradise away from paradise. Sadly, and much to their misfortune, this is not the case. Believe that I spend much of my day, when a thought can be spared from aching for you, precious wife, aching instead for my homeland, where goodness and justice prevail, and the heathens tarry not.
I will look for your answer as soon as you may see fit to send it. May the grace of our land and our honored commitment grant its messenger wings, that he may fly untrammeled with the greatest speed to bring me word of my only true love, the fairest woman to grace any nation of Sid, you my most amazing and patient wife. Know that I will be with you soon, and be comforted.
With all my love, undying and sure,
Laen
Siguard, Summer 12, 1644
Upon finishing, he could not help but recline and smile the smile of a loving--and loved--man. Again, as he did most every day, he reflected on his good fortune, and the knowledge that he seemed to live a charmed life. Then a thought struck him, and he rolled up the letter, his bare feet suddenly slapping the smooth polished floor loudly as he passed swiftly away from the soft light of his desk into the wider darkness, toward his bed.
He clambered onto the pale white vastness and reached across to caress the rounded hindquarters of the Lady Kiand, no less impressive concealed now under the soft sheets than they had been an hour earlier, fully exposed and given over to his will. She murmured as his hands moved upward, still lost in sleep, and rightfully so. It had been an exhausting tryst, and Laen, certainly a relentless man, was in nothing more relentless than in the pleasing of his partner's needs. He shook her until she rolled to face him on one elbow, a single small breast exposed in the near dark as the sheets took leave of her pale upraised shoulder. He caressed it now in fond memory of pleasure but recently enjoyed, and she cooed with slitted eyes, clearly of a mind that this was what she had been roused for. Then he smacked that same bare breast with the rolled parchment and said, "Here."
"You're a woman." He grunted as he reached high above for the contact on the headboard, pressing it briefly. Light such as a full moon's descended from heights unknown, emanating from a square that might equal in size and width the extravagant bed where they lay, though from this vantage point it seemed much smaller. Remote and unreachable. Sira Kiand blinked, confused and sleepy, taking the letter without understanding, her mouth open and wordless. Laen settled back into his half sitting position, naked and looking not to his bedmate, no more to the light, but instead into the darkness beyond the foot of the bed, far, far away.
"Read that and tell me if it sounds sincere."
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The next morning, Laen was notably late to breakfast, Victorious was notably not, and so began another day in the Godiian Embassy. These two principles of the Embassy, the Ambassador and the Captain of the Embassy Guard tended to break their fast together in a small room adjacent to the colossal main dining room, a tidy little space with long narrow windows open to the rising sun. The room glowed a dull, warm red on mornings like these, but then Laen realized, there aren't many mornings quite like this one. Not enough, at any rate. Perhaps this one, lone morning, he would be spared his comrade's haughty arched eyebrow, just this once--
Victorious had already finished his meal, the plate meticulously cleared sitting off to his side on the high, narrow bar where the meals were served. Though he was seated on of four high chairs, such as might be found at the nearest tavern, his legs easily touched the ground, suggesting not that he was resting in his seat, but merely pausing for a moment. He had his shield in his lap and was polishing it dutifully with an immaculate white kerchief. As Laen clambered up to his perch for another cold breakfast, Victorious cast him an arched eyebrow, then returned to his scrubbing. "It shan't be warm, you know."
Laen groaned inwardly. "No fear, I'll take it like a soldier." His own legs, he noted for the thousandth time, swung inches above the floor from his stool, even when fully extended. Whose idea had it been that they would dine thus each morn, anyway? No, this morning the usual jabs and barbs would not suffice. He sobered his features at once. "Sometimes I think you look down upon me, friend."
Victorious did not look up from his gleaming armor. "Sometimes?" His high, fluted voice descended upon Laen without inflection. "You should sharpen your senses, dear Ambassador."
Laen was unmoved. "What is it with you, Vicky? What is so... unappealing, that you find in me? Believe me, brother, I would move to correct it in an instant, if only that you might look more kindly upon me one fair morn out of a thousand." Laen lifted the burnished lid from his plate. Ah, terian and rossel! Even cold, the scent roused him. One leg swung idly, as if forgotten, as he sent his arms scrabbling for the cutlery.
Victorious held up his vast silver shield, ruddy in the late morning sun, and inspected it for flaws. "It is less you than myself, Mr. Ambassador. I rue the day I recommended you for the junior liaison post. How could one know that in the space of less than two winters, you would be the junior ambassador, and old Silva would be dead? You are unfit to represent Godii in this capacity, Laen Abor. Don't you feel you might be better-suited manning one of those heathen gambling stations you frequent so often?" Finding no flaws in his shield, he set it down against the near, eastern wall and turned his attention to his helm on the bar before him. Of course it was shining silver to a fault, and of course he would take out a new, immaculate white kerchief, tucking away the old, still-immaculate kerchief, and set to it at once.
Laen made a show of looking for the decanter of pin juice, and the fact that his glass was empty. Of course it was right in front of him, and they both typically served themselves in the morning, even when there was a full staff on hand, but still. He poured noisily. "It just eats the very marrow from your bones that I am in a position to give orders to you, doesn't it? Observe, then, how rarely I do. You have now, and have always enjoyed, my utmost respect. Surely you know this?" The pin juice filled him with cool assurance as it swept down his throat and surrounded his heart. "Surely I could not have fallen so far in your just eyes in such short time?"
Victorious eyed him briefly over his helm. With his free hand he deftly tucked one snow white kerchief into his tunic and brought out an equally snow white cloth in its stead. Then he turned his attention back to polishing that which needed no polish. "Not so far. Perhaps because it was not so far to fall in the first place, before you hit bottom."
Laen laughed so hard that terian egg flew from his lips--directly onto Victorious' glimmering helm. "Forgive me, Vicky, but I've got a long way to go before I hit bottom. You've only seen the surface of the depths to which I may yet sink." His broad smile was infectious, or at least would have been if there had been another warm-blooded creature in the room to infect. He reached over and flicked the offending bit of food from Victorious' helmet. Victorious merely watched to see where it landed, seemed to make a note of it, and returned to his scrubbing.
One long moment passed while Laen aimlessly chewed his food and Victorious made his way around his silver helm in meticulous circles. Nearing the end of his meal, Laen pulled out his other letter and tossed it onto the bar in front of his old friend. "My report. Care to check my code?"
Victorious sniffed, a strange habit he had whenever his attention was diverted from something he was intent upon, and set down the helm in precisely the same spot from which he had lifted it. No doubt, though Laen couldn't be sure, facing the same direction. The parchment made less than a whisper as Victorious unrolled it and held it up to the ruddy sunlight. He sniffed again as he began studiously examining Laen's long, flowing script. "This is quite late, you know." Laen struggled with a long, flowing finger to reach an oily piece of rossel stuck in his back teeth. He almost had it. No. Ok, this time... no. In a moment then.
"What by all the Fathers is this?" Victorious slapped the parchment down and stabbed it with an accusatory finger, and read aloud. " '..The skies have been particularly ruddy today, but let us not allow that to dampen our spirits.' What is this nonsense?" Just to be sure, he peered out the near window and assured himself that the skies were actually rather pinkish today.
Laen's laughter was delayed as he finally dislodged the offending rossel and disposed of it. "Oh, that's my favorite part! Isn't it something? Those coneheads in Security will be combing the books and scratching their beards in mazement for three days and again, trying to discern the significance of these 'ruddy skies'. I delight at the very thought of their confusion. If we must live afar in fear of their long arm, we might at least dance when we can. Lighten up, Vicky!" He reached across and thumped his companion's thick shoulder. "We lead charmed lives."
Victorious reached for his unfinished helmet. "One of us does, by my reckoning." Suddenly, all melody and flute-like qualities left his voice for the first time Laen could remember, as he set the helmet back down (again in exactly the place he had taken it from) reclined ever so slightly on his backless stool, and held Laen's eyes with dangerous scrutiny. "Enough. This dance of yours, this never-ending act makes me weary. Tell me now. Whose side are you really on, brother?"
Though the tone was unexpected, the timing atrocious, Laen was prepared for this question. "Yours, as I have always been, and will always be. You are my dearest friend, and I can only hope that you are on my side as well. I do try to be worthy of your trust, Victorious, though it may be difficult to see." He paused to drain his pin juice, while Victorious stood, replacing the stool exactly where it had been before he left it, and strode to the far wall where his plated armor waited, neatly stacked and fairly glowing, even in the shadows of the room. Unaffected, or at any rate presenting himself so, Laen continued. "The hand which took Wol Silva's life could easily reach next for my own. Or for yours." Victorious did not pause, and began to strap on his chestplate. "We live in fear, and my time here in Siguard City has taught me at least this much: good, free men should not live in fear. There is a grave illness surrounding the land of our birth. There is a great wrong emanating from the powermongers of The Keep. Yet I do not love my land any less, rather more, for I would see its many virtues preserved, and freedom from fear restored." Victorious now donned his mail skirt, followed by his gleaming, metal-shod boots. Laen waited for some reaction. There were many he had imagined in the aftermath of this disclosure, and though he had known Victorious for over seven winters, he could not be sure how he might answer now. "You will stand by me, in honor of our friendship and the betterment of our nation, will you not? I may continue to rely upon your good judgement?"
Body armor secured, Victorious reached for his belt and sword. Strapping it into place, he looked sidelong at Laen and said only, "We shall see."
Laen fought to keep his breakfast down. Nothing nauseated him more than people trying to be what they were not and could never be. He leaned forward in his seat and put a fist to his mouth to suppress his gall. The most open book of a man he had ever read, known, and loved was now trying to be, in his turn, cryptic. Laen turned to a new subject, as much to placate himself as to placate Victorious' suspicions.
"Yes we shall. Very soon. I have learned a most interesting fact, one whose interest I imagine would hold true all the way up to the stone chair of Graeme himself." Laen stood now, easing down from his chair, and Victorious walked past him as if he wasn't there. He was heading for his shield.
Laen's voice was so low and solemn he nearly shocked himself. "Damn you, my son wants to grow up to be just like his Uncle Vicky. His heart and mind are full of patriotic fervor, blind allegiance and a thirst for the blood of these heathens. You will at the least turn and hear me now, if not for your love for me, then for the devotion my entire family has always given to you."
Victorious paused, and turned to regard Laen as if for the first time this morning. The flute returned to his voice with one pregnant note. "Speak." Then another. "Friend."
"According to one of my more recent contacts, the Krysli are planning a special celebration to mark their tenth anniversary to lead off the upcoming Bardeenian festivities. This you may know. What I have learned, what will be of particular interest to our people, is that the fools intend to pay homage to the Savior of Siguard. A Magician." Victorious straightened at this. "Their leader, their founder, their so-called 'Lightfather'. We have only to attend and watch, and we will at last know who controls the Krysli."
Victorious took a rare liberty and allowed something, anything to support his giant frame as he leaned against the far wall. Any lesser man would have smiled, but he maintained his emotionless mien. "And how did you come about this information, this state secret. Did you employ torture? For the little woman who snuck out of the embassy in the early hours of the morning, according to Glem, did not appear to be anything worse than fatigued and nervous."
This was the Vicky Laen knew. His face grew solemn at his friend's base implication. "It is torture, a weight upon my soul you could never imagine, my friend. I do not relish these midnight trysts at the expense of my own fidelity. It is a horrible task, a duty I am loathe to perform. I seek only to serve my country, and take no pleasure from it, I assure you."
Another long moment passed. Laen stared in abject sorrow, one sad eye on the floor before him, and one on his companion. His sadness was palpable, and filled the room exactly until Victorious smiled. Then of course, Laen was beside himself with laughter. "I'm sorry!" was all he could manage to say in between gales and hoarse breaths. "I'm horrible. I know it." And wouldn't you know it? Victorious actually chuckled--briefly--depsite himself, as he donned his shield and reached for his helmet.
"You missed your calling in life, Laen Abor. You should be on a stage somewhere. Or perhaps in a cage." He stood, fully armored and glinting magnificently as if he were waiting on Laen.
Laen was still snickering. "Where are you off to, dressed like that?"
Victorious continued to smile. "The Krysli celebration. It begins at noon. If we hurry, we may arrive in time to learn the truth of your dearly-bought secret."
Laen was halfway out of the room, already on his way upstairs to fetch something approaching appropriate attire even as he exclaimed over his shoulder, in total surprise, "You mean that's today? And me, without a thing to wear!"
They were. He needed to cool down and get a grip on things. He never seemed to have enough time to wrap his will around his ever-changing thoughts, themselves capricious and variously wandering in and out of his consciousness in response to his ever-changing situation. And without his will, inflexible and adamant, he would surely be lost, forever a charlatan, an amusing but harmless chameleon. Expendable in every sense of the word.
And he needed to write. Two letters to two very different recipients back in his far-off homeland were long overdue. Such tardiness on either score could prove dangerous to further allow. He hated to write. No, that wasn't true. He loved to write; he hated to respond. No, correspond. The deadlines, the expectations, the bothersome need and drain on his resources. He rose naked even as he concluded that at least one of these letters could be put off no longer. Crossing the wide room, his hand found a contact on the wall above his desk, and pressed it gently. A soft, pale white light sprang forth from no specific point on the polished stone wall, but rather emanated softly, unobtrusive compared to the vast dark of the remainder of his chamber, from an area roughly half a span square above his desk. As always, he had to stop for a moment longer than he cared to admit to admire the handiwork of the Magicians of Ernesse. What Godii wouldn't give for such lights, and the commercial empire such conveniences might command. Or more precisely, Laen smiled as he sat and opened the long center drawer, what Godii wouldn't take for such treasures. Hence the high-flying Krysli.
With quill in hand, he paused one last instant. Which letter was most important now? Of course, he already knew the answer, had known it since earlier that evening, shortly after arriving at Councilor Kiand's lavish party. He dipped the quill into the well and bent to his task. As usual, once he had actually started his correspondence, the loathing seemingly vanished, confirming that in sooth, it was the starting of the letter which irked him the most. Once that hurdle was cleared, he was again in his element, bringing charm and goodwill from thought, past his vocal chords, and straight to the paper. He knew in his heart that he was a good man, and properly conveying this conviction was soothing to his sense of self. More soothed than any evening breeze could lay claim to, he wrote quickly, only pausing to refresh his quill, and only then because he must.
My dearest Kalandra,
I fear I must ask you to once again forgive the unforgivable, and bear without resentment the lateness of this letter. Know, if it might bring you some consolation, that I have thought of you each day we have been apart, longing for your company and the strength it lends me. Of course I know I would have faltered long ago without the long arms of your utter and undeserved devotion warding my every misstep. You are a blessing upon me, and I thank the Five Fathers you would look so kindly on such a wretch. Truly, I am not wholly blind, and know when I am surpassed. I humbly thank you for deigning to be my wife. I continue to strive to be somehow worthy of your immeasurable charms. One day, it is my fondest hope that I may at last be deemed fit to kneel before your high pedestal without shame.
I long for news of you, knowing that the longer I fail my duty and obligation to respond to you with timeliness and proper respect, the longer still until I might hear word of your heart, my dearest love, and how it fares in this strange world, so far removed are we. Rest assured it shall not always be so. Soon, sooner than it may seem, I will again be lost in gratitude and sheer joy in the only haven I have ever needed, the only office I would ever wish to hold, that is the sweet embrace of your arms.
I would kiss you now, if only I could. Even so, I kiss the empty darkness before me and amuse my fancy that you may, lying dreaming so many leagues distant, dream of being kissed by your loving husband, and be made in some small measure more glad and restful. Such is the hope of my enduring love for you, blessed wife. Breath itself is unremarkable and less dear, if you are not present to bear it witness.
Having so abased myself, will you not write at once, or as soon as you can kindly smile upon the effort, and tell me how you fare? Even the simplest account of the most mundane affairs of the day would please my ears more than all the horns and strings of all the troubadours of Jest. If you can spare an additional moment on my account, I would also greatly wish to know more of our son. He is growing into such a fine, strong young man. His strength and honor outpace that of the father to a degree that is simultaneously humbling and gratifying. Surely we can easily agree that his boundless virtue would stem more rightly from your precious family than my own? I pray that he is safe and most of all, happy beyond words. Tell me now, has he surpassed the tests? Do not think for a moment that I doubt it. He is a hardy lad, and has trained well, honing his already amazing skill to the sharpest detail. Attend, my dearest love, he shall be more than a mere soldier; he will become a great leader of men long before his peers. A moment. How inattentive of me. He, as you full well know, is without peer. In this, as in so many things, he takes after his mother.
I have nothing new to report from here. It is a humdrum existence in a blank estate surrounded by the morally corrupt citizens of our sometime adversaries. They build beautiful cities, they compose wondrous works of art, they perform amazing theater, and are indeed a rich culture, save that they have no morality, and instead celebrate its absence. Would that they could be enlightened, as the proud peoples of our fair land are, and have been ever, and I would think I had found a paradise away from paradise. Sadly, and much to their misfortune, this is not the case. Believe that I spend much of my day, when a thought can be spared from aching for you, precious wife, aching instead for my homeland, where goodness and justice prevail, and the heathens tarry not.
I will look for your answer as soon as you may see fit to send it. May the grace of our land and our honored commitment grant its messenger wings, that he may fly untrammeled with the greatest speed to bring me word of my only true love, the fairest woman to grace any nation of Sid, you my most amazing and patient wife. Know that I will be with you soon, and be comforted.
With all my love, undying and sure,
Laen
Siguard, Summer 12, 1644
Upon finishing, he could not help but recline and smile the smile of a loving--and loved--man. Again, as he did most every day, he reflected on his good fortune, and the knowledge that he seemed to live a charmed life. Then a thought struck him, and he rolled up the letter, his bare feet suddenly slapping the smooth polished floor loudly as he passed swiftly away from the soft light of his desk into the wider darkness, toward his bed.
He clambered onto the pale white vastness and reached across to caress the rounded hindquarters of the Lady Kiand, no less impressive concealed now under the soft sheets than they had been an hour earlier, fully exposed and given over to his will. She murmured as his hands moved upward, still lost in sleep, and rightfully so. It had been an exhausting tryst, and Laen, certainly a relentless man, was in nothing more relentless than in the pleasing of his partner's needs. He shook her until she rolled to face him on one elbow, a single small breast exposed in the near dark as the sheets took leave of her pale upraised shoulder. He caressed it now in fond memory of pleasure but recently enjoyed, and she cooed with slitted eyes, clearly of a mind that this was what she had been roused for. Then he smacked that same bare breast with the rolled parchment and said, "Here."
"You're a woman." He grunted as he reached high above for the contact on the headboard, pressing it briefly. Light such as a full moon's descended from heights unknown, emanating from a square that might equal in size and width the extravagant bed where they lay, though from this vantage point it seemed much smaller. Remote and unreachable. Sira Kiand blinked, confused and sleepy, taking the letter without understanding, her mouth open and wordless. Laen settled back into his half sitting position, naked and looking not to his bedmate, no more to the light, but instead into the darkness beyond the foot of the bed, far, far away.
"Read that and tell me if it sounds sincere."
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The next morning, Laen was notably late to breakfast, Victorious was notably not, and so began another day in the Godiian Embassy. These two principles of the Embassy, the Ambassador and the Captain of the Embassy Guard tended to break their fast together in a small room adjacent to the colossal main dining room, a tidy little space with long narrow windows open to the rising sun. The room glowed a dull, warm red on mornings like these, but then Laen realized, there aren't many mornings quite like this one. Not enough, at any rate. Perhaps this one, lone morning, he would be spared his comrade's haughty arched eyebrow, just this once--
Victorious had already finished his meal, the plate meticulously cleared sitting off to his side on the high, narrow bar where the meals were served. Though he was seated on of four high chairs, such as might be found at the nearest tavern, his legs easily touched the ground, suggesting not that he was resting in his seat, but merely pausing for a moment. He had his shield in his lap and was polishing it dutifully with an immaculate white kerchief. As Laen clambered up to his perch for another cold breakfast, Victorious cast him an arched eyebrow, then returned to his scrubbing. "It shan't be warm, you know."
Laen groaned inwardly. "No fear, I'll take it like a soldier." His own legs, he noted for the thousandth time, swung inches above the floor from his stool, even when fully extended. Whose idea had it been that they would dine thus each morn, anyway? No, this morning the usual jabs and barbs would not suffice. He sobered his features at once. "Sometimes I think you look down upon me, friend."
Victorious did not look up from his gleaming armor. "Sometimes?" His high, fluted voice descended upon Laen without inflection. "You should sharpen your senses, dear Ambassador."
Laen was unmoved. "What is it with you, Vicky? What is so... unappealing, that you find in me? Believe me, brother, I would move to correct it in an instant, if only that you might look more kindly upon me one fair morn out of a thousand." Laen lifted the burnished lid from his plate. Ah, terian and rossel! Even cold, the scent roused him. One leg swung idly, as if forgotten, as he sent his arms scrabbling for the cutlery.
Victorious held up his vast silver shield, ruddy in the late morning sun, and inspected it for flaws. "It is less you than myself, Mr. Ambassador. I rue the day I recommended you for the junior liaison post. How could one know that in the space of less than two winters, you would be the junior ambassador, and old Silva would be dead? You are unfit to represent Godii in this capacity, Laen Abor. Don't you feel you might be better-suited manning one of those heathen gambling stations you frequent so often?" Finding no flaws in his shield, he set it down against the near, eastern wall and turned his attention to his helm on the bar before him. Of course it was shining silver to a fault, and of course he would take out a new, immaculate white kerchief, tucking away the old, still-immaculate kerchief, and set to it at once.
Laen made a show of looking for the decanter of pin juice, and the fact that his glass was empty. Of course it was right in front of him, and they both typically served themselves in the morning, even when there was a full staff on hand, but still. He poured noisily. "It just eats the very marrow from your bones that I am in a position to give orders to you, doesn't it? Observe, then, how rarely I do. You have now, and have always enjoyed, my utmost respect. Surely you know this?" The pin juice filled him with cool assurance as it swept down his throat and surrounded his heart. "Surely I could not have fallen so far in your just eyes in such short time?"
Victorious eyed him briefly over his helm. With his free hand he deftly tucked one snow white kerchief into his tunic and brought out an equally snow white cloth in its stead. Then he turned his attention back to polishing that which needed no polish. "Not so far. Perhaps because it was not so far to fall in the first place, before you hit bottom."
Laen laughed so hard that terian egg flew from his lips--directly onto Victorious' glimmering helm. "Forgive me, Vicky, but I've got a long way to go before I hit bottom. You've only seen the surface of the depths to which I may yet sink." His broad smile was infectious, or at least would have been if there had been another warm-blooded creature in the room to infect. He reached over and flicked the offending bit of food from Victorious' helmet. Victorious merely watched to see where it landed, seemed to make a note of it, and returned to his scrubbing.
One long moment passed while Laen aimlessly chewed his food and Victorious made his way around his silver helm in meticulous circles. Nearing the end of his meal, Laen pulled out his other letter and tossed it onto the bar in front of his old friend. "My report. Care to check my code?"
Victorious sniffed, a strange habit he had whenever his attention was diverted from something he was intent upon, and set down the helm in precisely the same spot from which he had lifted it. No doubt, though Laen couldn't be sure, facing the same direction. The parchment made less than a whisper as Victorious unrolled it and held it up to the ruddy sunlight. He sniffed again as he began studiously examining Laen's long, flowing script. "This is quite late, you know." Laen struggled with a long, flowing finger to reach an oily piece of rossel stuck in his back teeth. He almost had it. No. Ok, this time... no. In a moment then.
"What by all the Fathers is this?" Victorious slapped the parchment down and stabbed it with an accusatory finger, and read aloud. " '..The skies have been particularly ruddy today, but let us not allow that to dampen our spirits.' What is this nonsense?" Just to be sure, he peered out the near window and assured himself that the skies were actually rather pinkish today.
Laen's laughter was delayed as he finally dislodged the offending rossel and disposed of it. "Oh, that's my favorite part! Isn't it something? Those coneheads in Security will be combing the books and scratching their beards in mazement for three days and again, trying to discern the significance of these 'ruddy skies'. I delight at the very thought of their confusion. If we must live afar in fear of their long arm, we might at least dance when we can. Lighten up, Vicky!" He reached across and thumped his companion's thick shoulder. "We lead charmed lives."
Victorious reached for his unfinished helmet. "One of us does, by my reckoning." Suddenly, all melody and flute-like qualities left his voice for the first time Laen could remember, as he set the helmet back down (again in exactly the place he had taken it from) reclined ever so slightly on his backless stool, and held Laen's eyes with dangerous scrutiny. "Enough. This dance of yours, this never-ending act makes me weary. Tell me now. Whose side are you really on, brother?"
Though the tone was unexpected, the timing atrocious, Laen was prepared for this question. "Yours, as I have always been, and will always be. You are my dearest friend, and I can only hope that you are on my side as well. I do try to be worthy of your trust, Victorious, though it may be difficult to see." He paused to drain his pin juice, while Victorious stood, replacing the stool exactly where it had been before he left it, and strode to the far wall where his plated armor waited, neatly stacked and fairly glowing, even in the shadows of the room. Unaffected, or at any rate presenting himself so, Laen continued. "The hand which took Wol Silva's life could easily reach next for my own. Or for yours." Victorious did not pause, and began to strap on his chestplate. "We live in fear, and my time here in Siguard City has taught me at least this much: good, free men should not live in fear. There is a grave illness surrounding the land of our birth. There is a great wrong emanating from the powermongers of The Keep. Yet I do not love my land any less, rather more, for I would see its many virtues preserved, and freedom from fear restored." Victorious now donned his mail skirt, followed by his gleaming, metal-shod boots. Laen waited for some reaction. There were many he had imagined in the aftermath of this disclosure, and though he had known Victorious for over seven winters, he could not be sure how he might answer now. "You will stand by me, in honor of our friendship and the betterment of our nation, will you not? I may continue to rely upon your good judgement?"
Body armor secured, Victorious reached for his belt and sword. Strapping it into place, he looked sidelong at Laen and said only, "We shall see."
Laen fought to keep his breakfast down. Nothing nauseated him more than people trying to be what they were not and could never be. He leaned forward in his seat and put a fist to his mouth to suppress his gall. The most open book of a man he had ever read, known, and loved was now trying to be, in his turn, cryptic. Laen turned to a new subject, as much to placate himself as to placate Victorious' suspicions.
"Yes we shall. Very soon. I have learned a most interesting fact, one whose interest I imagine would hold true all the way up to the stone chair of Graeme himself." Laen stood now, easing down from his chair, and Victorious walked past him as if he wasn't there. He was heading for his shield.
Laen's voice was so low and solemn he nearly shocked himself. "Damn you, my son wants to grow up to be just like his Uncle Vicky. His heart and mind are full of patriotic fervor, blind allegiance and a thirst for the blood of these heathens. You will at the least turn and hear me now, if not for your love for me, then for the devotion my entire family has always given to you."
Victorious paused, and turned to regard Laen as if for the first time this morning. The flute returned to his voice with one pregnant note. "Speak." Then another. "Friend."
"According to one of my more recent contacts, the Krysli are planning a special celebration to mark their tenth anniversary to lead off the upcoming Bardeenian festivities. This you may know. What I have learned, what will be of particular interest to our people, is that the fools intend to pay homage to the Savior of Siguard. A Magician." Victorious straightened at this. "Their leader, their founder, their so-called 'Lightfather'. We have only to attend and watch, and we will at last know who controls the Krysli."
Victorious took a rare liberty and allowed something, anything to support his giant frame as he leaned against the far wall. Any lesser man would have smiled, but he maintained his emotionless mien. "And how did you come about this information, this state secret. Did you employ torture? For the little woman who snuck out of the embassy in the early hours of the morning, according to Glem, did not appear to be anything worse than fatigued and nervous."
This was the Vicky Laen knew. His face grew solemn at his friend's base implication. "It is torture, a weight upon my soul you could never imagine, my friend. I do not relish these midnight trysts at the expense of my own fidelity. It is a horrible task, a duty I am loathe to perform. I seek only to serve my country, and take no pleasure from it, I assure you."
Another long moment passed. Laen stared in abject sorrow, one sad eye on the floor before him, and one on his companion. His sadness was palpable, and filled the room exactly until Victorious smiled. Then of course, Laen was beside himself with laughter. "I'm sorry!" was all he could manage to say in between gales and hoarse breaths. "I'm horrible. I know it." And wouldn't you know it? Victorious actually chuckled--briefly--depsite himself, as he donned his shield and reached for his helmet.
"You missed your calling in life, Laen Abor. You should be on a stage somewhere. Or perhaps in a cage." He stood, fully armored and glinting magnificently as if he were waiting on Laen.
Laen was still snickering. "Where are you off to, dressed like that?"
Victorious continued to smile. "The Krysli celebration. It begins at noon. If we hurry, we may arrive in time to learn the truth of your dearly-bought secret."
Laen was halfway out of the room, already on his way upstairs to fetch something approaching appropriate attire even as he exclaimed over his shoulder, in total surprise, "You mean that's today? And me, without a thing to wear!"
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