Chapter 6

The other nine people around table were generous with their gossip and passing of little tidbits of news. Most of their latest updates made no sense to North; he had no context. Being honest with himself, he had no urgency to learn the context of most of their drivel either. At the Cat’s Whisker, there was an unwritten set of rules about sharing and most guidelines concerned not boring the rest of the diners and drinkers with stuff no one cared about. Announcing that a certain gateway was not functioning - everyone listened. Your brother’s girlfriend dropped him to become an ascetic because he was that bad at sex – your business and no one else’s. North concentrated on keeping his cuffs out of his food.

He was eyeing a yellow and red apple in the center bowl when he felt a nudge in ribs from his right. He quickly peeked at Yasin and then followed the direction of her attention. From his left, he noticed a man of medium height with a full head of salt and pepper hair making his way towards North’s table. The man looked furious, and others were noticing. Conversations were dropping off. With a glance at the queen who had a slightly raised eyebrow as she surveyed the scene, North prepared himself.

“Pardon me, my new friend Yasin, but I believe that duty beckons,” North said softly as he removed the rag from his lap.

“I’ve got ten copper riding on this,” she replied, hardly moving her lips. “Don’t screw it up.”

North pushed back his chair and stood before the man reached him. Standing with his hands relaxed at his side, North spoke as the man drew near, “Can I help you?”

“Are you the pissant who humiliated my son on the practice field?” the man nearly shouted.

North stopped and began putting on his mage glove as casually as if he was picking his teeth with a splinter of wood. “You admit your son is the spineless worm who handles a sword like he’s holding his prick and thinks waving it around will impress everyone? Is this your son?”

The man’s ears turned red. “You insolent peasant! I will grind you into the dirt from which you emerged. I shall strike you down and mix your spilt blood with the shit and the piss of the pigs who are your parents. I shall smack that smile from your face...”

North gathered his Power and using the form of the shield, scooped up the man and threw him halfway across the hall to smash into the wall. The man had felt like the weight of a small dog or a cat instead of a full grown male, at least since the last time North had used such a maneuver. The man slid down the wall and landed on his rump.

Not taking his eyes off his opponent, North stalked towards the stricken man who had insulted him with deliberate paced steps; North would not show himself in a rush. The man shook his head a few times to clear it and then much to North’s surprise, the fallen man stood up. His face was a mask of pure hatred. North had no sense of his own visage, concentrating on his target as he had been taught.

Sure enough, the man reached behind his back and retrieved a short sword, a gleaming blade that caught the light and shone. North did not stop, pulling his own blade from his Power-cloaked sheath and willed it to its extended length. While the people in the room collectively sucked in their breaths, the armed man lunged at him. North stepped to the side, bringing his own sword in a downward arc, slicing the man’s hand off at the wrist. The offending little sword clattered to the floor.

The man looked with horror at his arm that was spraying arterial blood, almost black, onto the nearby seated diners. North swung again, cutting the man from the right shoulder to the left hip. As his clothes fell open, those closest could see a fine line of cut skin that barely bled at the moment.

“If someone cares to bind his wound with a tourniquet, this man, whom I accuse of sedition against our most glorious Queen, will live to see another day. If not, this noble Court has chosen,” North declared. He had hardly finished speaking when a woman ran over, ripping her dress as she came, to bind up the wound. North considered whether the woman knew what she was doing, but he turned his back on the two of them and walked back towards his chair.

“My Queen,” he spoke aloud as he faced her. “The recruit in question was of such poor quality that he was dismissed immediately. A soldier serves his kingdom and his liege, and does so by standing fast with his comrades in arms. In no manner did this recruit show the slightest inkling of what it means to serve in Her Majesty’s Army, and he showed no capacity for learning. No officer would allow that young man to stand at her Majesty’s back with a drawn sword.”

“The Queen concurs,” she said, holding up her fist. “Crimson!”

Men and women of arms surged to their feet. “Crimson!”

“To the Court and the staff that serves it,” the Queen declared, “The Jack of Spades stands now before you. He was chosen by the fabled mage sword Dauntless and is my chosen Sword Arm. The Court of the Crimson King and its Kingdom are still decimated and under threat, and we are in no manner prepared. This night I put all of you on notice. Come prepared to address our enemies or you will be dismissed. No claim of Noble heritage will be given an automatic pass. New events are coming at us quickly, and I will not fail.”

“The Queen!” someone shouted.

“The Queen!” came the trained response from the gathered.

“Jester,” the queen called out. “What say you?”

The Yellow Jester stood, minced his way to the stand directly before the royal table. He made an extravagant bow that stretched from above his head to his toes. He trilled for a few moments on a penny flute before he spoke. “When her Majesty proposed that she was in need of a pokey stick, we all thought that the queen had learned the coarse language of her army and made it her own. ‘O, the pokey stick’ many said, is that not what our brave soldiers take to the brothel? We were right, but still we were wrong for no mage warrior goes anywhere, even the brothel, without his pokey stick.”

The giggles were emerging from all corners of the room.

“Imagine our relief this evening as we learned from the Jack of Spades that a prick is a prick, and every soldier of the male persuasion has one, even the worst of them, and every warrior of the female persuasion can get one.”