Rhonda
The Pirate King Bradai Maith
The Ball, The Maith Mansion


Bradai watched as the Terresi Lady sauntered up, all meekness and manners. She bowed once, presented the gift, looked towards the ground, bowed twice, and swore her House, albeit a minor one, to Fleur and Caderyn. When she looked up, everyone could see that she was beautiful. She had heavy tresses of dark hair and sly dusky eyes to match. Suddenly, her swearing of loyalty did not seem so demure. In Terresol, there would be many eligible dames waiting for Caderyn Vortigern, looking to have his ear or his bed or perhaps even his niece's crown, but tonight Lady Calypso Kolgrim had struck first. And that had to stand for something. He heard someone whisper her name.

The King thanked her, gave her the customary gifts for a lady of her standing, and moved to dismiss her. The First Admiral, however, had other ideas. She called the woman over, close to the side of the table, just as the shield was being handed to her. Giving a gift to his sister had been clever, especially if the House she had just swore lived on a coastline, but Bradai misliked the way his sister had been looking at the woman. To a King, a gift was simply a gift, a show of submission or appreciation. To an Islander like Gitten, it was an invitation. 

It was only when Bradai noticed the mark and make of the sword he had been given that he realized it had been forged on the Ruby Row, from a Islander smithy of good repute. The smith had come to his court on a number of occasions to squabble over any small thing that might threaten his already meagre livelihood. A poor man, an old man, a miser, but good at his craft. Either she had come unprepared or she was poor. Probably both. Either way, Silas had been right about her, she was clever. He was about to mention the marks when the hall was filled with Northerners.

The Pirate King did not know much of northern politics, not when he had spies and confidants to see it through, but he _did_ know that the Skaggerlies were vicious bannermen of the Vivayns. A stocky older male, a pair of twins, and a little girl, all bedecked in red and white, same as their sigil: a white gator on a crimson field. With their swampy eyes, gaunt faces and pale skin, he supposed that the comparison came easy enough. They had brought the chill of the north with them, in their cold blood. 

When men give you the name of Pirate King, there are a few gifts that are expected as commonplace. Swords, hats, animals, whores and plunder. But when they trotted out the common girls, dressed in strange parody of their own outfits, and offered up their siblings to the Pirate King, the room grew silent. To give your daughter to a King was one thing, but to hand over your own sisters? It had a devil of strangeness in it. Bradai watched as the twins leaned into each other, whispering, doting. He turned, beginning to fill up the flagons with rum. It felt strange to look upon them now. Sisters? _These northern stock.,_ he thought. By the time the drinks were passed over the table, the gardens were full of silvered breastplates.

Bradai watched as the rest of the Vivayn soldiers filed into the gardens, and narrowed upon the man that was leading them. He was parading them around the balcony, across the playfront that had been erected, near a bowl of braised octopus, and broadsided them into the middle of the King's court, smashing into the Skaggerly lines. The close cropped hair and beard, the squid emblazoned upon his breastplate, the complete disregard for social customs. He recognized the man from somewhere. From the sea, perhaps? Had he sailed with a man like this? He had to have been from the Northern Isles, with that glinting brass armor. Then he remembered.

"Damian?" The Pirate King whispered, watching as the Brass began to push aside the other Northerners. He leaned forward, both of his hands against the table and his arms straight and sturdy, like columns. The cigar hung from his mouth limply, but as the soldiers came to a halt, it stood between two pairs of grinning teeth, with the firelight flickering off of the golden ones. When the man introduced himself as David Brass, King of the Sea, Bradai simply had to applaud him. 

"I 'ad not noticed that someone 'ad taken tha sea from me. 'ow long 'ave we been at vhis festival? Five weeks? Two days? Seven monffs?" The tension in the air settled, and the press began to laugh. "And I am no pirate. A pirate steals fings. A King 'as fings brought to 'im." Bradai motioned to the chest, "What 'ave you brought for me? The sea is a bountiful place." 

But then the nightfires began to go up, the dry bonfires atop the castle walls _wooshing_ into roaring red towers of flame. Drums pounded off into the night air as the attention of the party was brought skyward, to the highest tower on the estate. Bradai looked to his left, to Silas, only to find that the man had skittered off into the darkness. The Pirate King cleared his throat, suddenly looking hurried. 

"Shit," He muttered, placing a hand over his eyes as the Tower of the Seneschal as the nightfire atop it blazed yellow, then blue, then green, then red, until it settled into a balmy orange.

"We do not 'ave much time," The Pirate King said, as he began to pass out the flagons of rum. "So you must excuse me if I do not give you the time you'd like. But..." He popped the cigar out of his mouth, throwing it to the rounder of the Skaggerly sisters. "Muffy, Big Tits, I do want you to do somefing for me. I want you to get all uff vhese Vivayn knights out uff 'ere. I did not call for vhem, and to fill my gardens wiff men I did not invite is not a good gift. Go be on your Winged Watcher, I do not want you in my court. The true Skaggerlies are to stay. The rings I do like. Fank you for vhem." He watched as guards began to pour from behind his dias, extinguishing the torches, candles and braziers. The room was growing dimmer by the second. He waved the others along, "Now let me talk wiff tha King uff tha Sea." 

He watched as the light of the garden began to fade and the stars began to burn little white holes in the clear black sky. It would be a good night for stargazing. 

When David presented his gift, Bradai could not give it the time it properly deserved. A thick pelt of a great northern seal. It looked like an elephant's hide. He might not find some immediate use for it, but the King's love for foreign baubles knew no end. 

"I want to speak wiff you about your land, David Brass. Your bruvher was not so forffcoming," He passed over an extra flagon of rum for the King of the Sea, "But ou are a Vivayn supporter, so maybe you will be different. I am a friend to Marshall Carter, but I do find 'is vassals a bit cold. Hah." He gave a good natured smile as the knights were ousted from the gardens.

"Please all uff you, take your gifts and take your seats, I—"

And then, complete blackness, save for the blinking yellow lights of the lightning bugs. Cries went up around the gardens, the squawking of waddling birds, the croaking of lily frogs and the pound of the shoreline. But then, in a literal puff of smoke, there was light. 

In some of his most formative years, the King had spent his time in the courts of Old Azarya, reading, writing, studying, orating, scheming, and just as important, attending great shows of art and splendor in their Milorad Houses. Mages, inventors, physicians, charlatans, true and honest men of worldly knowledge and the titular Milorads performed there. All Milorads were men, and almost all of them were highborn, but only one of them would ever be Accapelli, the Moon Serpent. 

The world erupted into light as the Tower of the Seneschal burned with a fire as white as a snowstorm. A great glass lens was held before it, and a column of white light illuminated a perfect circle in the middle of the ballroom floor, before the great playfront that had been erected.

In a sudden "Fwoom" A puff of smoke rose from the floor, thick and hazy grey. From it emerged two pale birch wands, clasped delicately in two similarly pale hands. But then, they opened with a click flick of the wrist, as they splayed upon themselves, revealing fans of thin teal turquoise. They flapped like the wings of a great insect as they spun the smoke into impossible shapes, first a fish, then the water, and finally into a large crescent moon that dissipated into the air, silent on the wind. 

A beat from a solemn drum hung in the air before the Moon Serpent undulated, contorting their body to spin and face the audience. Their face was painted, as was in typical Azaryan form, a mixture of black, white, and dull yellow to form the visage of the night sky. Another beat sent the fans spinning in his hands, slapping closed, unclosed, and then closed again, until they were being tossed through the air, sliding deftly in and out of the palms of the Milorad. The blue and silver tassels on his coat swung in motion, like waves upon a shore. And just when it appeared that the fans would not reach his hands, the Moon Serpent pulled his hands into his chest and the fans caught light in air, not claterring to the ground in some great mess but with flakes of ashes falling down no softer than snow.

With arms outstretched, he addressed the crowd:

"TWO BROTHERS!" He cried, as the stage behind him was illuminated. 
Just as he had said, there were two brothers upon a stage, the actors frozen in time. 

The Serpent placed his hands on the arms of a throne, which held the first actor. "The Intrepid Ice Lord, pinned between his loyalties to Great Southern Kings and his..." He cleared his throat, "Porkly Princess."

He skittered across the stage, to rest his hands upon the shoulders of another man, locked in the embrace of two buxom women. "The Princely Brother, Felix Carter. When it comes to the South, he hates everything but the women. You can ask his wife, he locked her in the dungeons!"

The Moon Serpent stepped off into center stage, "The brothers have not gotten seen eye to eye for quite some time. And now, someone will come to draw them apart."

The Moon Serpent reached behind his back for a mask, and when he placed it on his face, the crowd gasped. It was a skull. 

"Ladies and gentlemen, for your pleasure..." The Milorad cupped his hands around his mouth, to shout the name of the play and the scene before slipping through the back curtain.

***"The Brother's Rebellion. 
The City of Grand Stead, the Witherlands!"***

ACT 1

The scene would open in Grand Stead, where a dusky man sits, clearly uncomfortable, streaks of black makeup running down from his eyes. He was covered in thick black pelts, and on his head was an iron crown. He was sweating profusely. His fingers tapped against the arm of the throne, impatient. 

"Oh woes, oh woes, oh tireless woes, 
That I, dear Marshall, must explain,
For although made from sure Northern stock,
My brother drives me _quite_ insane..." 

The actor threw his head into his hands, weeping comically, just in time for another actor to spring to life. He waltzed towards his brother, a whore in both arms. They both sported red blonde wigs, and one had her breasts out. He, much like his brother, was donned in thick, black pelts. His accent was foppish. Where at first it appeared he was wearing red lipstick, most everyone began to recognize the pock marks that had been painted on his upper lip. The brother, Felix Carter, began to speak:

"Oh _brother_ dear, how can you weep,
With all the women I've brought here?
For what the Northmen lack in brains,
The Southern women have in rear!"

Felix smacked the ass of one of the whores, which sent the crowd into a mad frenzy of laughter. Marshall removed his hands from his face, exasperated with his brother's actions. Felix smiled a sickly smile and presented both the women, who giggled and began to fawn over the Ice Lord. He reeled from them, wiping his tearbright eyes. As Marshall dodged the sultry tendrils of silk and alabaster skin, he retorted sharply:

"Well brother dear, I'm glad to hear
That you still love the South.
But oh, those whores don't like your sores
Upon your hands or on your mouth!"

The crowd roared with laughter as Felix shrugged with a bloody grin. His brother continued:
"They've proven to be valuable
In the Shore and in the Isles
And so I think it's that we 
Show them our Northern wiles..."

Felix lowered his eyes, giving his brother a predatory look. He was fiddling with his belt underneath the dense furs. In the Island heat, the actor was soaking through his clothes. It only seemed to make the display of open lust more hilarious. 

"Why, dear brother, I'd never thought
Thought you could see me eye to eye. 
But to taste more Southern wenches?
It is surely worth a try..."

Marshall looked concerned, and from stage left, a young girl came to stand by his throne. She was portly, accentuated by the padding of her dress and the ham hock in her gloved hands. 

Felix reacted in horror:

"Oh Marshall, _NO!_ 
That's not my kind!"

Marshall slammed his fist on the throne, prompting for Marnie Carter to drop the ham hock.

"That is my _DAUGHTER_, Felix!
Pay no mind.

What I propose
We ask for trade
Is not of simple whores."

Felix fell to his knees in despair. The wenches ran from the throne, to hoist him to his feet. When he beat one across the face, they ran from him. He pounded his hands and feet against the stage. His brother seemed to heed him no mind and continued as his daughter clambered up his legs and sat heavy in his lap.

"I ask for fruit
And wine, and grain,
To get my daughter off the boar!"

 "BOAR?!" Princess Marinie shouted. "BOAR? BOAR? BOAR?" Her shouts for meat were accentuated by a jump upon her father's lap, who after so many jumps was beginning to grip onto his throne for dear life. His voice was a harsh rasping wheeze as he continued:

"She eats the meat
All day and night
With teeth all bared and gnashing

Her waistline grows 
And Gods it shows
When she must take her lashings." 

Felix gasped in shock, rolling onto his back. 

"No whores?!" He shouted

"No Dames?!"

"No beautiful Islander women to warm by bed at night?" The crowd could hardly contain their laughter. When he stood, he placed a hand on the hilt of his greatsword. A wordless threat.

"No women?!
Marshall I must I say, I'm appalled 
At your healthy southern wishes
But I must say, I will not play
Unless I fuck their bitches!

I thought that brother, just for once, 
That we might just get along
But you have proven, without a doubt
That your royal mind is too far gone!"

"Thems fightin' werds, uncle!" Marnie Carter stood on her fathers lap. She drew a chicken leg from the belt on her dress, brandishing it as if it were a sword. Felix responded in kind, with the real thing.

"But if it is a fight you want
Then it is a fight I'll send.
Brother dear, soon our blades will cross
And bring your tyranny to a bitter end!" 

Felix stood and threw his heavy cape in a flourish, exiting behind the curtains of Grand Stead. Marshall put his face back into his hands and continued to cry. 


ACT 2

The stage is set in Wingsway, the banners of House Vivayn, the snow crow, waving in the wind. Marshall is nowhere to be seen, but Felix stands there, two new whores at his sides. Across from him is a hunched, decrepit, but well dressed young lord, a large pink feather atop his black velvet hat. His form fitting doublet is made from fine red velvet. He is wearing a skull mask. From neck to feet, the entire lord's skeleton is made from white patterns in the fabric. Felix speaks to the lad, who is manically wringing his hands.

"I do think this plan might work
Although it lacks in treachery. 
You can help my brother see
The many joys of lechery.

You can show him that the North
Has all the food he needs to keep
His porky daughter nice and thin
And maybe that will stop his weep." Felix gave a pregnant pause, then added, "—ing". The crowd laughed again. 

From stage left, Marshall emerges, his daughter riding his back. His legs strain under the immense weight, his face covered in sweat. His knees begin to buckle as Nathaniel Vivayn takes center stage, placing a hand on his breast and clearing his throat:
An announcer shouts over the top of the playhouse: "THE VIVAYN SOLILOQUY!"

"You see, Carter Brothers, I explain
The many thoughts you cannot think.
For inside my highborn, illustrious brain
Are many plans without a kink.

Now Felix, dear, I must attend
To your strange perchance with Southern Whores
Your brother's daughter, she is starving
You surely want to wish for more."

The young actress for Marnie perked up, raising her head and clearly forcing more weight onto Marshall's back. "I'M STARVING!" She shouted, pounding a turkey leg onto the crown of the Ice Lord. 

"And Marshall, dear, you must admit
That Northern women are quite weird.
They can lift that weight and more
And often have to shave their beard. 

It is no shock your brothers wants
A women of a gentler breed.
So don't you think it would be wise
For you to satisfy this need? 

Of course..." Nathaniel turned towards the audience, giving a heavy wink before returning to his spot between the brothers, "There is a _third_ way." 

"Third?" Felix asked absentmindedly, currently kissing one of necks of the women. 

"Third?" Marshall rasped, knees buckling from the strain on his back.

"Yeeeeeesssssssss." Nathaniel hissed, clearly pleased with the intrigue the proposal had caused. He took a few careful paces forwards and addressed the crowd directly,

"Now what these brothers do not know
Is that this plan is not for them.
It serves purpose near opposite
To make them both what they condemn. 

And when their house is torn in twain
House Vivayn will take the stage!
And burn asunder all they've made
And leave them with a mourning rage!

I shall drive the brothers dear
Apart in their divisions 
And from that rubble I will build
In grand and godly vision!

Now watch..."

Nathaniel placed a hand on Marshall's shoulder, driving the Ice Lord further towards the ground. Nathaniel produced a purple vile from his pocket, dripping some onto Marshall's blade.

"Methinks your brother dost protest..." They both turned their heads and watched as Felix left lovebites all over the red haired women's necks. 

Nathaniel continued:
"Your proper claimant as the Lord
He's always been quite jealous of you
And how you were your father's Ward.

He's like a snake
Just like his mum
The one you could not stand.

He'll take your place
And take your crown
If you don't defend your land."

Marshall, now ignoring the weight of his daughter, stands upright, unsheathing his sword. The little girl fell off into the mess of pillows sewn into her dress and skittered off the stage.

Nathaniel creeped to the other side of the stage, getting in between Felix and his whores, earning a few kisses on the cheek in the meantime. 

"Now Felix, look
How your brother, dear
Prepares for battle even now.

Let's end the reign 
Of Crying King
Of Weeping Ward
Of Beaten Brow."

Felix pushed himself away from his women, and unsheathed a lithe saber. Both of them ushered a war cry, running towards each other, and ending the scene. 

ACT 3

The scene is an icy tundra, the brothers alone facing off. The sound of whipping winds and a light dusting of white confetti drifts through the air. Marshall, readying his longsword in both hands, speaks first.

"Diplomacy is not my strength
My meetings held quite limply
But now you've got my on the field
I'll cut you down right simply." 

Felix responds,

"It's days like these that keep men sane
When you can kill a brother.
Without these values, life is pain
One sword slash, then another."

Felix and Marshall converge, striking at each other with heavily choreographed blows. The band began to play a rousing theme of battle, the drums pounding as if in the belly of a great warship. They both seem to be fighting hard. 

Marshall shouts above the battle music, 

"I can't wait to cut that smug 
Southern look right off your face!
When I pop your eyeballs that will prove 
The North is the most civilized place!"

Felix retorts,

"We hate the South
We hate its plays
And all their books upon their shelves
Why ever fight that terrible place
When we can stay and fight ourselves!"


Marshall moves to respond, but is struck in the side with the saber. He collapses, falling to the ground, clutching his side. A small pocket on his shirt flips inside out to reveal ten or so red sewn kerchiefs, resembling blood. 

"Oh woes, oh woes, oh tireless blows
You've struck me deep and true
Your blade stuck to my tender side
And pierced me through and through."

Felix kneels over his dying brother, and begins whispering some last rites. His back is facing Marshall who continues,

"And now I lay here, brother dear
At a loss that I have earned...
And yet I still fear for my Kingdom..."

Nathaniel Vivayn jumps over the crest of the icy shelf, calling to Marshall:

 "THEN STRIKE HIM WHEN HIS BACK IS TURNED!"

Felix sprang to attention, but it was too late, Marshall's blade has found itself way into Felix's side, and in much the same fashion, he falls to the ground.

 Felix shouts,

"A poison blade!
Oh brother dear, how could it end this way?
I thought the North was some great place
Where honor ruled the day!"

Slowly, Vivayn banners begin to rise over the ridge, filling the horizon of the set. The two Carter brothers look at each other in horror, and begin shaking, facing up towards Nathaniel. 

Nathaniel turns to face the audience and splays out his spindly hands,

"And so the tale of brother's dear
Meets its such untimely end
O, how easily families fall
When they meet a wonderful friend." 

"Fire!" Vivayne shouted, and the sounds of many bowstrings twanging accented the fall of the curtains. 

The crowd went wild.
Elissa
Mouse
The Ball, The Maith Mansion

Mouse wasn't quite sure how she found herself inside the mansion of the Pirate King, Bradai Maith, yet now she found herself crawling under tables and over the skirts of noble women while her knobbly hands stopped to snatch for the stringy tail of a large rat.

"Get t'fuck ye wee wetstain!" She hissed out at the rodent. A nobleman looked under the table at her and pulled his boot away from her side as she skittered past.

With a soft *Whoosh* Her hand flew in front of her and she caught the end of the rat's tail between her fingers, having to push her body forward and onto her stomach in order to catch it.

"Got yew!" She cheered to herself, sitting up and knocking her head on the underside of a long, finely crafted table.

With a throbbing head, she pushed herself from under the table, a struggling rat in a balled fist. When she emerged from under the desk she found herself in a wonderland of lights. In front of her, the tables seemed to have disappeared and a man on a stage above spoke out in confidence, his face painted in bright colours and immediately Mouse was enthralled.

She watched and laughed and clapped along with the invisible audience from the aisle between two tables, her throbbing head disappearing for the moment as she watched this story come to life. When it ended the world seemed to stop.

Finally, she snapped out of it and clapped along with the audience, banging one hand against the fist where a rat still sat, no longer struggling. It was then she noticed the tears streaming down her red cheeks, she had been weeping from the beauty of the poetic speech the actors recited.
Antonio
The district itself was a wonder, a place where he could sllow his mind to relax and his eyes to wander. Architecture fashioned from bloodstone, like the walls, leapt up and over all around them. It was almost like something he might have seen at home. The kings men were thronging the place, not unlike bees arraying themselves to defend the hive, and the high-up honey cells were glowing with light and tinkling with the mirth of Tonate's highestborn. Samsom pouted. It felt as though there was a subtle but deep-rooted unease in the city, a slight uncertainty about identity and character and worth. Nothing about the commoners they'd passed spoke of great love and welcome for all these continental aristocrats that were poring onto the island. This man, this 'pirate king', had turned his people's path around in less than twenty years, but perhaps they had yet to find their sure footing. And Samsom couldn't help but perceive a great dangerousness in that.

' Too big for his bloody boots,' muttered Lutur as they walked, his sharp eyes lathering the place in a black glaze. ' Take an eyeful of this *Beauty* While it lasts. This city began as a den of piracy, and so it shall end once this 'king' of theirs is gone!'

They arrived at the gates of the mansion. Much of the same business, though a good deal easier. It didn't sound like much had kicked off without them, so he supposed Lutur would be more calm. Now they had to give up their weapons as well; Samsom had expected as much, giving over his blade without trouble. Goyran seemed a bit more bothered, perhaps embarassed, to disarm himself, but he was quiet and diligent boy, and Samsom banished any chagrin with a hand on the shoulder. ' Good man,' he told his squire. ' It's just like Lord Nemnous said to me. *A king's palace, a king's rules*.'

Lutur gave that a pointed 'hmph'. Samsom glanced at Peraz, and they walked on through.

They found decent seating, not far from the high table. Lutur became almost blue in the face with scandalized rage when he saw Cyprien sitting there, at the king's side.

' This is absurd!' their lord-brother hissed. ' He's not even an archon—he's a glorified groundskeeper! What business does he have up there, and not I? It's very suspect, if you ask me. *My* Vassal ...'

They barely managed to stop him marching up. The fact that food and drink was already being laid out gave them help enough in convincing him to wait, to wait until after the gift-giving. Lutur himself had brought nothing.

' And I'll lose no sleep over it,' he grumbled as he poked at the little stuffed ray floating in his soup. ' Even now, the Pirate King still enjoys wealth stolen from *Our* People, and from Araedia.'

' Well ...' Samsom put in, and swallowed. ' I mean, you could say the same for us and them.'

' Fie!' Lutur snapped, pounding the table and disturbing the other nearby diners. ' He needs no gift from me. My *Presence* Is enough of a gift. Me allowing the steward and his son and his little hussy to sit at the high table is enough of a gift. Even if I myself didn't think it inconceivable to offer him Terreme silks, our compatriots certainly would say so! And what lackwit am I to risk losing favour with my closest friends and allies just to appease some godless *Sproutling* Of a monarch? Fie upon that mongrel cur's expectations, and ... And who even is *That* At his side? Some Amorothi prince who's sold his dignity to be the Pirate King's goon?'

Samsom looked over. There was too much distance and too little light to make out the man's features, but unlike his siblings, he knew precisely who it was, and that put a lump in his guts.

That feeling was nothing compared to what was soon to come. A man came along the gifting line. He had a fiersome look about him, with grey hair and a trim beard, and a long face that struck Samsom as unmistakably Terreme. There was a detail in the face that alarmed him, though; the glint of amber on one of his eyes. When Samsom squinted, he saw that the whole eye was made of amber, or something like it.

Samsom was well-travelled, and had heard of many characters of his gracedom's stock. He knew the name of the man with the amber eye: Valkrin Farensun. The pirate. Their father's unwitting avenger.

What came next only added to the sheer irreality of it all. The gift that Valkrin offered was Vronti Kelwynd's own gilded skull. Samsom gaze was transfixed by it. The skull was beautified now, but had once housed so dark and heretical a mind. It was sickening and pleasing and flabbergasting all at once.

Unsurprisingly, the more prominent Islander captains immediately began squabbling over the skull. Samsom found himself focused on Lutur, wondering how his brother felt to see all this. The young archon's lips were apart, but his teeth were clenched, and there was a chilling intensity in his eyes.

' That's Father's killer,' he murmured, and then louder and more vociferously, ' that's Father's killer! Surely *I* Must—'

Samsom felt his heart roll in his chest, unsure if Lutur was about to bless or ruin his night with this outburst. Thankfully, their sister stepped in to nip either possibility in the bud. By some miracle, she was able to subdue his sudden spirit of earnest before he drew any serious attention. He thanked the gods that the Islanders themselves were to loud in their entreatments for his brother to have be heard.

Lutur was so flustered that he actually stood up and left under a single guard, retreating to the water gardens. It wasn't unusual for him, and in the circumstances, it was very advantageous, because it wasn't long until the pirates began openly mentioning their designs on Terresol. With wide eyes and a simulation of shock, he tried his best to make Peraz think he was as surprised to hear this as she surely was. 

He'd known, of course. He knew that the man up there was Caderyn Vortigern, Prince of Terresol. When the girl came, he knew that she was Fleur, Crown Princess of Terresol. And he knew the logical inference of what the Pirate King had planned, if those two were in his company now, and him having worked for the last long while on a battle fleet not to be scoffed at.

After a while, he just had to grip his cup and look down, avoiding all eyes but especially his sister's. The guilt was overwhelming, and that gnawing feeling, that torturous disquiet that had haunted the back of his neck ever since he'd saved Daurryn's life, was attacking him at full tilt now. He'd withheld things from his sister, one of his dearest friends. Now, he was practically lying to her as well. And there would be plenty more lying to come.

If that alone wasn't bad enough, the prince's words were enough to make him shiver. It was only a passing remark, but what he'd said about the Southern Pantheon—his accusations of their 'indulging' the Sun King—hinted at a worrying disdain that Samsom hadn't been expecting. Surely the Grand Clerics had done what they'd needed to do for the welfare of the gracedom? Denying him his divine mandate would have only sent more souls to the flame. But then again, perhaps if they *Had* Fermented religious discontent ...

Samsom shook his head. That was then. He had immediate concerns with which to busy himself, like the survival of everyone and everything he'd ever loved.

' Don't tell Lutur when he comes back,' Samsom murmured stiffly to Peraz. ' We'll give it time, alright? He'll ... We'll give it time.' He sipped his wine, started eating again, and said no more on it.

Lutur returned a while later, just as the lights were being extinguished. The play seemed well-done, and he was aware of a few half-hearted laughs out of his lord-brother—'We ought to humour this sort of thing more in Falsa,' Lutur had proclaimed midway, 'less long-winded poetry and more spectacle!'—but it all buzzed by like a fever dream for Samsom. His mind was too wracked by Caderyn, and Fleur, and Valkrin, and the skull of their father's killer that the princess now had, gilded, in her possession.

Thankfully, she came along soon after the play had concluded. Samsom looked at her as she drew near, perhaps a little too obviously. They'd chosen well; Terreme if her look spoke true, she was beautiful, dressed in finery, exactly that to which Lutur would be drawn. He wondered if she was really one of them, or just one of their associates. Maybe they were coercing her, just as they were him.

In any case, the dark, doe-eyed lady came to Lutur's side and placed a hand over her breast. ' My word, is it really you, *Barempsa*?' She even used a traditional style of address; he could already see a glint in Lutur's dark eyes. The woman went on, smiling coquettishly, ' Are you Archon Lutur?'

His lord-brother looked the woman over, and grinned. ' Such is my blessing.'

' Oh, *Axan*, I've heard such charming things about you. My friends in Sol have told me of your intoxicating company.'

Samsom winced. 'Intoxicating' was laying it on a bit thick. Lutur didn't seem to think so, however. His brother glanced at him, and Samsom was sure he was remembering what he said on the ship. *Doe eyes on the look out for crowns big and small*. Poison, though Lutur was too dull to realize. Blithe and excited, Lutur looked at her with a twinkle and said, ' It's the Solan ladies that bring it out of me, *Ellastim*.'

Well, he'd certainly heard enough of this, and now everything was falling right into place. He favoured the woman with a kind smile, saying, ' Please, take my seat, *Ellauxa*. I should stretch my legs anyway.'

' No, master, I shall do it.' Goyran's heartstrong offer would have touched Samsom any other evening, but in that moment, he was surprised by how much it angered him.

' No, Goyran, sit down,' he said to the boy, a little too sharply. The lad's thin dark brows twisted up in a frown, and he looked away. Samsom pursed his lips. 'Really, I do need to get a walk out. I might speak to few people.'

The beauty inclined her head to him. 'Most gracious of you, ser.' *Yes, yes, wiggle your dance,* He though with a sudden, jaded spite. She slid into place next to Lutur, and Samsom, with an apologetic look towards Peraz, left them to approach the high table.

The table bore quite an assortment of faces, for him. His lord-brother's 'steward', then his son—a vague friend who had once loved Samsom's sister—then *His* Young sister, then the somewhat mysterious demarch from the Solan environs who was acting as her handmaid. His own crown princess was seated along with them, by the side of her exile uncle, and dividing the two worlds was the Pirate King and his monstrous sister.

He figured that Bastien must have won the joust they'd tragically missed thanks to an evil wind, hence why he and his dear ones were eating with the King. That did put Cyprien awfully close to the man with designs on the Terreme throne. They'd told him not to worry about the De Lysses, but he'd explained, quite heatedly, that Cyprien de Lysse was a greater player than his 'official' status suggested, and a potentially key factor in this great, bloody affair. They hadn't listened. He always had trouble making people listen off the battlefield.

' Hail, Your Highness,' he called on his approach. He was coming from the periphery so as not to warrant any awkward niceties with the King; his focus was on Caderyn. ' My name is Ser Samsom of Falsa, half-brother to Archon Lutur. My lord has yet to meet you, but let me assure you that House Vortigern will have Falsa's fullest support in reclaiming the throne.'

He let his eyes fall to the golden skull, hands joined at his waist. 'Vronti Kelwyn ... He slew my father, Your Highness. Archon Baldarian was ambushed and summarily executed, for defiance. A proud man, our father. He knew what he didn't like, and gave it no countenance.' Treating the skull with a careful eye, he asked, 'Might I ... *Hold* It a moment, Your Highness?'