"Oh, pity the poor glutton
Whose troubles all begin
In struggling on and on to turn
What's out into what's in."
―Walter de la Mare
Gluttony
If any respectable military commander—the kind Lerant of Eldorne had always dreamed would make his life miserable on the battlefield—could see him now, gulping down his ninth tankard of ale at one of Corus' seedier taverns, they would have ordered him to be flayed within an inch of his life, or to be discharged in disgrace, but Lerant didn't need to worry about that happening to him. He was already condemned—found guilty without a court martial of his aunt's treason—and sentenced to the shame of a life of rejection from all forms of military service. His blood, even when untainted by alcohol, had been seen as too rotten even for positions that were open to commoners, and his family's name was such mud with the rest of the realm's nobility that his abilities were at best irrelevant and at worst sullied.
Gesturing curtly for the serving maid to refill his tankard as she squeezed past him with a pitcher of ale for the raucous and intoxicated cluster of young men at the table behind him, Lerant thought bitterly that if King Jonathan was trying to drive him to treason, he was doing a wonderful job. If Lerant couldn't use his skills and his temper for the realm, he would be driven by his frustrated desire to use his abilities and his outraged pride against Crown and country. The Eldorne line was fiery with lust and greed; that blaze could be flamed for the Contes or against them, but it could never be quashed, as King Jonathan and his military commanders might learn the hard way if they continued to try to stifle Lerant's flame.
In his own way, Lerant was as much of a glutton as his aunt Delia, and ale would only satisfy him for so long. Eventually he would have to give into the urge to actually do something to justify the terrible verdict of guilt that had been pronounced against him since the unlucky day of his birth.
The serving maid had refilled his tankard, so he raised it in a toast to this bitter conclusion. Then, he quaffed down a quarter of the glass in one chug. The speed at which he drank made it impossible to taste the ale, but, given its smell and the murky condition all the glasses in the tavern were in, he figured that it was more a beverage to gag over than savor. It was a drink meant for gutter scum, so it did not aspire to taste better than filth.
Lerant's tankard was half empty and his perception of the world was starting to split into several alternative planes of reality when he was joined by a giant of a man that even his skewed vision could recognize as Lord Raoul of Goldenlake.
"Thought you gave up drinking," muttered Lerant, slurring the words, and surprised by how long they took not only to appear as ideas in his head, but also to emerge from his mouth as incorrectly pronounced syllables.
"I have. I came to see you, not to sample this establishment's fine selection of ale." Cheerily, Lord Raoul raised a cup of water that looked like it had been drawn from a swamp in a salute to Lerant. "Palace gossip had it that you were here, and I figured that I would check here first if only to prove the wagging tongues wrong."
"You found me." Lerant's lip curled, as he waited for the latest session of mockery to begin in earnest. It was difficult being the court laughingstock, because the hours were random.
"I've come to offer you a place in the Own as my standard-bearer," said Lord Raoul, smiling slightly. "Now that Austin has tied the knot with his sweetheart, I need some other young warrior to take his place, and I'd be delighted if you took the job."
Lerant's eyes narrowed. If this was a joke—and it had to be, because the events of the past few days had provided ample evidence that even the realm's worst commanders wanted nothing to do with the son of a line tainted by treason—it wasn't a funny one. At least, it wasn't for him.
He wished fervently that the courtiers would go back to laughing at the jesters they paid to amuse them, so he could slink home with his tail between his legs like the beaten dog he was. Such high class individuals should have the good breeding to stop hitting a wounded man, but, instead, they sought him out at taverns where he was trying to drink away his sorrows, offering him false positions apparently for the sole purpose of discovering if he was wasted enough to accept. Then, if he was, they could have the pleasure of turning him down spitefully and gossiping about it with their vulture friends later. Well, Lerant wasn't going to let them pick at his carcass. When they swooped to take a bite out of him, he would claw at them viciously with his sharp talons, because he might have fallen but he was still dangerous.
"Nice prank, but you need to work on your delivery." Lerant twisted his lips into a contemptuous sneer when really he couldn't decide whether he wanted to punch the grin off Raoul's face or bury his head in his hands because there would never be a time when he wouldn't have to be ashamed of his birth. Being related to a traitor was worse than being related to a peasant in the court of public opinion, which made all the most important rulings in the country. "Got to be more deadpan if you want me to believe you're serious, so your joke fell flat on its face, but we've got to appreciate your nerve and what you've done for the sport of petty jokes everywhere."
Now that was a wonderfully cutting refusal, and Lerant would know, after hearing so many over the past couple of endless days that had piled shame and misery on top of embarrassment and disappointment. It had the perfect mix of exaggerated sympathy, faux politeness, and genuine scoffing. An Eldorne could always muster a scathing comeback, and, even drunk, Lerant's wits were more about him than many young noblemen's were. He might have looked like easy prey, but he wasn't—not even for the Commander of the King's Own. In a war of wits, if not on the battlefield, Lerant of Eldorne could match the best and have a fighting chance, or that was what the blood pounding through his eardrums tried to assure him.
"I'm serious. I never make an offer if I have no intention of keeping my side of the bargain." Lord Raoul arched an eyebrow. "The question becomes are you serious about a military career? Because that's the only thing we're serious about in the Own; everything else can be a good laugh."
"I'm an Eldorne." Lerant cocked his head, and immediately wished that he hadn't made this movement when dizziness and nausea swept through him in a tidal wave. Before Aunt Delia had disgraced the family with her treason, a Goldenlake might have been interested in working with an Eldorne, but now not even the lowliest noble families were about to stick their necks out on behalf of an Eldorne. A bad reputation was more catching than many diseases, after all, and it was so much easier to fall than to rise at court. "You risk the king's displeasure by associating with me. A clever advocate might even find a way to implicate you for treasure just for offering me a position in the Own without royal approval."
"A clever advocate can turn anything into treason." Lord Raoul waved a dismissive hand, and Lerant supposed that being able to presume on King Jonathan's friendship was one of the perks of being a close companion of his since childhood. Some people were placed so highly that they couldn't even think of falling when stooping over to pick up the lowly, but surely Aunt Delia, who had once had Jonathan wrapped around her finger like a ring, must have once been as confident of Jonathan of Conte's affection, and now she was locked for life in a dungeon. Aunt Delia was proof that anyone could aspire too high and presume too much on the love of royalty. "It's one of the dangers of living in a society governed by the rule of law. If His Majesty wants to chop off my head, he has about a hundred other reasons to do so by now, so I see nothing wrong with giving him another. Anyway, I don't think the king will be as upset by your military career as many have assumed. He's the pragmatic type of ruler—knows that it is wiser to have a good warrior in your army rather than outside it, and understand that something dangerous happens to the soul of a man who wants to achieve greatness but is denied the chance to attain it. He'd prefer to have you as an ally than an enemy, and so would I, Lerant."
Lerant swallowed hard. He was so used to being strong in the face of rejection that he found it hard to be anything but weak in the wake of acceptance. Everyone who looked at him seemed only to see his aunt's terrible treason, but now this commander had truly looked at him, seeing that he was dangerous and ambitious yet also not failing to miss his potential as a loyal and courageous ally.
"I accept your offer, my lord, and I will serve as your standard bearer to the best of my abilities," said Lerant once he was confident that his voice wouldn't shake. He lifted his chin and tried to make it clear that he knew how the laws of fealty worked: your lord stuck his neck out for you, and you defended him to the death; you had a sharp tongue and a sharper sword but you only wielded them against his enemies and never against him; he offered you a chance to succeed and you did not insult his faith in you by failing. Honor—the only true glory—was determined by how well you fulfilled those duties. To fail your lord was to fail yourself. To betray your lord was to abandon yourself. To disrespect your lord was to disgrace yourself. It was as simple and as complicated as that.
"I don't doubt it. You can begin training with the boys tomorrow." Lord Raoul rose, and, with a clap on Lerant's shoulder as he passed en route to the door, exited the tavern.
Drinking alone again, Lerant scowled and shoved his tankard away. If he drank anymore, he would be stumbling like a deranged grandmother around the practice courts tomorrow, and Lord Raoul deserved to have a standard-bearer who wasn't a drunkard. Now that he could contribute to Tortall in a nobler way than supporting taverns, he should pay and try to recover from his evening of dabbling in debauchery.