Deceit, (a Draining) Discussion, and Daggers
Morning always arrived far too soon for a certain royal who had been called lazy on more than one occasion by a certain someone whose name rhymed with "schmweniveire." Arthur rolled over with a groan and tried to block out the day with a pillow. If he couldn't see it, it couldn't see him. He lay there for a few minutes, and then slowly, the events of the past few months returned to him. Groaning slightly more quietly and dimly debating how to find out who had opened the curtains and execute him or her, Arthur swung his legs out of the almost criminally comfortable bed to greet the day.
The day turned out better than he had hoped. While a royal introduction to court of the importance of his would usually entail a few weeks of fanfares and revelry, Vortigern had apparently decided to curtail this period to six days as part of the ongoing mission to belittle him. If this was the intent, it failed miserably, and Arthur strolled down the hallways toward the courtyard in his second week of residence in Essetir with a spring in his step for the first time in a while. The lack of a schedule of official appearances allowed him time to snoop around a bit. Plus, if he had to listen to one more trumpet, Arthur was going to do something he might regret, though the trumpeter would probably regret it more. In daylight, the fortress was actually quite lovely, with the grey stone of the walls giving way to the light orange of a mineral he didn't recognize at about waist height. The hallways didn't seem quite so claustrophobic as they had in the first week either, although they still echoed loudly as he strode (which, looking back, seemed a bit paradoxical: how could a space be cramped and echoing at the same time? Yet, that was how he had perceived it). Rounding a corner, Arthur came upon a well-maintained garden in the middle of a square of columned, roofed walkways continuous with the castle's passages, presumably placed there to allow finicky royals to enjoy the atmosphere of the garden from the comfort of the shade: god forbid they have to actually be exposed to sunlight to experience the outdoors. Arthur forsook the walkways to wander down the yellowish, sandy path between the patches of vibrant green springing up from the rich earth.
Arthur's smile dimmed. He knew that Essetir had been recovering from a drought, which was why his father had been so caught off guard when Vortigern's armies never seemed to run out of food. This was probably the most fertile soil in the kingdom, and yet Arthur was willing to bet none of the delicacies grown here went to feed Essetir's more needy citizens.
Turning away sharply, the foreign (another thing he would have to get used to: he was the foreigner here) royal headed for the castle's exit, his striding becoming suspiciously like storming. He made it to the main eastern doors unmolested, although the few times he encountered a servant carrying laundry or a gentlewoman out to "take the air," he could feel his or her eyes on his back long after passing.
Arthur was striding very fast now, perhaps faster than was wise if he wanted to appear to be purposefully walking, which was what he was doing, rather than fleeing, which he was most definitely not doing. He slowed as he approached the gates and politely requested that one of the pike-wielding guards open them for him. He was banking on someone so low on the chain of command not knowing him by face.
No such luck.
"Prince Arthur!" the man cried out, flabbergasted. "I mean, your Highness! Wait, I mean, m'Lord! Wait, no–"
"It's unimportant," Arthur cut through smoothly. He was trying to reassure the soldier, who was still stuttering, but his unintentionally cool and imperious tone only seemed to fluster the man further. The guard had curly brown hair (he lacked a helmet) and was surprisingly young, probably in his early twenties, but on Arthur's part, the novelty of intimidating his elders had worn off long ago. Arthur paused to reconsider: maybe instead of trying to calm the soldier down, he should use the other's agitation to his advantage. He put his nose as high in the air as possible without looking ridiculous. "I should like to visit the lower town. The gates?" Bloody hell, it was hard to put on the demanding noble act when the guy had around six inches on him, but Arthur thought he was pulling it off.
"Erm–ah–I mean, there's–that is to say we've! We have! Um…." The bewildered waffling had by this point attracted the other guard, an older man with green eyes and salt-and-pepper hair under his helmet who carried himself with more confidence than his compatriot (although Arthur had to question how anyone could carry himself with confidence while wearing a breastplate and greaves with those awful orange-and-yellow pantaloons).
"Prince Arthur!" the second man exclaimed in a slightly milder tone. "My lord! To what do we owe the pleasure?" He inclined his head briefly, a movement which the first guard followed with so much violence and gusto that he looked like some sort of exotic bird seizing a grub. The older soldier sighed almost imperceptibly and wordlessly excused his red-faced and clearly relieved partner, who almost stumbled and impaled himself on his pike as he backed away with a bit more head-banging. Arthur felt one corner of his mouth twitch, then quickly settle again as he turned to face the more experienced guard before him.
"I was hoping to visit the marketplace in the lower town. Would you be willing to open the gates for me?" Arthur had dropped his act, sensing that this new obstacle would have none of it.
"Ah, unfortunately, I don't have that authority." Translation: I'm under orders not to open the gate for you specifically.
"I understand, but I am a guest of King Vortigern, so under the circumstances I should think something could be arranged." Translation: Please, I'm not going to run away and start a war. Do me a favor? It could be profitable for both of us….
"Well, I'm under orders to at least make sure you are provided with an escort, though I am unable to leave my post to arrange it." Translation: We're going to have to compromise, and I'm going to have to do something I shouldn't. What's in it for me?
"I'm sure that if these are your orders, you could not be faulted for carrying them out by acquiring an escort, and it would only be fair to compensate you for the extra labor. Say, five gold sovereigns?" Arthur was beginning to like the man: he was using his wits to get what he wanted while still not technically disobeying orders in a significant way. One didn't get past middle age in the castle guard without a certain compromise mentality.
"That sounds entirely fair, my lord." The salt-and-pepper guard walked off toward the palace, leaving Arthur with the nervous guard, who kept glancing at Arthur when he thought he wasn't looking and twitching. It made Arthur very uncomfortable. Eons later, the older soldier returned with a bland-looking man with brown hair, who was introduced somewhat apologetically as George. George bowed his head in the now-expected gesture and murmured formalities in a mild, dry voice that was as forgettable as his features. Arthur supposed that being saddled with a milktoast temporary manservant was acceptable if regrettable, and they exited the sunny courtyard together through the iron gates, George a few polite steps behind.
They were halfway to their destination when Arthur recognized George as the liveried footman who had taken him to dinner on his first night there. This in itself was not unusual, seeing as the heir a-bit-less-than-apparent had never made much of an effort to remember servants (excluding one). However, under the circumstances it was a bit disturbing that he had been shadowed by this exceptionally forgettable man before (probably multiple times since then) and not realized it. Arthur resolved to pay closer attention now that he was the center of it himself.
At around an hour and a half to noon, the pair arrived at the Lower Market, which occupied a bustling courtyard still within the castle's outer walls. The space was filled with Essetis of all classes peddling and buying wares from under colorful but dirt-stained cabanas. Business seemed to be booming despite the recent drought, but while the foreign goods were just as fine as a Camelotian was used to, the vegetables and grain on sale seemed scarce and wilted, and the square, while bustling, did not even approach the hubbub of Camelot's Lower Town on a Sunday. Arthur stopped at a few booths to avoid the suspicion of his escort, braving a swarm of flies to examine a haunch of meat at a cranky butcher's setup and haggling over and actually buying a bolt of deep green cloth from a man with some unusual piercings. Morgana would love it if he got it home to her. When. When he got it home to her.
Finally, Arthur stopped at his true destination: an innocuous knife-sharpener who did not seem to be out-competing the other two who shared his trade at the market. The vendor, a dark-skinned woman who appeared to be around forty, was slightly hunched even when she stood up from her wheel from years of plying her trade, but there was nothing bent or twisted about the cheerful sparkle in her green eyes. Her name was Maggie, but George did not need to know that or to know that he knew that.
"Excuse me, madam, but could I possibly call upon your services? I have a few knives and a sword that got a bit blunted in practice duels on my way here." She turned from where she had been setting aside a now gleaming dagger and blinked, the picture of surprise. Had Arthur not known better, he would have feared he had the wrong vendor: there was no hint of recognition in her eyes.
"Of course, but what is a young lad like you doing practicing with real swords? Dear Lord, what is the world coming to." He began to answer, but she kept on going without a breath, still beaming. "My son Jack would never even be allowed near a real sword, the great big brutish things. He wanted to become a palace guard like his brother, but I said no to that early enough." Arthur decided not to comment on the hypocrisy of her parenting tactics, given her chosen profession (both as her cover and in real life, since he knew that she was possibly more adept with a sword than most of the palace guard).
The heir was so caught up in how convincing her act was that he almost didn't catch it when she abruptly changed topics from her children (who were, in his opinion, little nightmares, but that was neither here nor there; he was totally over that time little Jack had tried to stab him with gardening shears) to the task at hand. "Unfortunately I'm all backed up at the moment, so I probably won't get to your order for a few days. And, good heavens, how many things did you say you needed sharpened? I have so many sharp objects drifting around back here it's a wonder I wasn't impaled years ago!" She gave him a wink at this, which caused him to start a little at the blatant breaking of her cover, but George would probably just interpret it as punctuating her joke. Arthur could tell she was trying not to laugh at his discomfort.
"Ah, yes, I have...um…." He made a show of counting on his fingers and glancing at the sky as he removed seven knives from various locations around his person: his boot, both sleeves, his waist, the back of his collar, and one particularly clever one disguised as ornamentation on his belt. George did not react other than to give him a blink-and-you-miss-it sidelong glance. "Bloody… I must have lost one. It should be eight. And the sword, of course; the sword took the worst of it."
Maggie pursed her lips at the weapons now occupying the low table in front of her booth. "Yeesh, that's a large order. Let me see, we'll have you fill out an order form," she began, pulling a piece of cheap parchment out of a locked box to her left, "and I'll make sure to have everything done by three weeks from now, so you can come back down to pick it all up then. Make sure to describe the specifics of each knife on there: my youngest, Janie, likes to come in here and switch 'em around sometimes!" She threw back her head and cackled, and a few neighboring store owners gave her fond smiles. Maggie Einarsdottir, groomed to spy for Uther since childhood, was in deep.
Arthur took the parchment and an offered quill and bent to the table to scratch out his order. Centurion sword, engraved with lion. 3 daggers, blue steel with leather-wrapped grips. Scimitar blade, diminished size. 2 long-bladed knives with 3 ridges on grips. Aradonian penknife. When he was done, Maggie took both items back and placed them in the lockbox, still gabbing away. By the time the teen had escaped her small talk and visited one more stall to deflect suspicion, the sun was directly overhead: high noon.
In around a week and a half, Uther would receive the "order form" and interpret the message based on a prearranged code. Contact established. The amount of time for this message to reach Camelot and return is three weeks. Don't send response by river route since there are guards along the canal. The description of the scimitar, a curved blade considered dishonest by many fighters, signaled how closely Arthur was being spied upon. Observance present but minor. The number 2 signified both Vortigern and son are in residence in case an assassination or two proved advantageous, and the number 3 simply meant no news. The final item was his signature, Arthur Pendragon. Arthur thought it was too simple, but Uther insisted that people tended to miss what was right before their eyes, and his son had not questioned further.
For now, Arthur had just crossed the first item, "establish contact," off of his to-do list. It was tempting to stop there for today, but there was still too much daytime left, and he was feeling productive. He and his forgettable shadow made the short walk back to the castle in silence.
~o8o~
Back inside the fortress, Arthur skulked around a bit, but there was really nothing he could do. This was the disadvantage of spying as a political hostage as opposed to, say, a scullery maid: he couldn't overtly seek out intelligence without potentially tearing apart relations already incredibly tenuous and frayed, and everyone around him was actively hiding any information of value. He hadn't uncovered anything in a week and was starting to feel useless.
He was saved from his semi-devious ambling by a summons from Vortigern's chief-of-staff, delivered by one of those messengers in the floppy hats. This tactic, at least, was incredibly insulting. Princes summoned chiefs-of-staff, not the other way around, but Arthur bit down his pride and followed the pantaloons. At least he was more likely to learn something from this meeting than from wandering aimlessly and hoping to just happen to follow the right person or eavesdrop on the right conversation on an enormous, multileveled estate. However, Arthur was still not looking forward to the discussion, seeing as it most likely pertained to his attempted unsupervised and uncondoned field trip.
Vortigern's head of the household was an older man who seemed perpetually in motion, straightening things or pacing in small steps, a tendency which Arthur would later theorize stemmed from the man's constant need to reaffirm his own indispensability. It was exhausting to hold a conversation with him. "Milord, His Highness King Vortigern (long may his righteous reign endure) has requested that I, his humble and subservient servant, speak, communicate, and hold congress with your royal self regarding your dwelling in this...dwelling." He shifted and cleared his throat importantly, cover the look of vague discomfort that flashed across his face. "Since it has come to my attention and I have been made aware that you ventured to the Lower Town this morning, not two hours past, His Royal and Regal Highness has informed me of the necessity of–" here he took a brief pause for breath and to straighten a nearby tapestry on the wall– "discouraging your egress or departure from these castle grounds without accompaniment." There was a brief cessation of motion and speech, and Arthur's reply was on the tip of his tongue when the man, seemingly nervous at a moment lacking the soothing tones of his own voice, inhaled sharply and continued. "Of course, surely and undoubtedly milord understands that out of respect for your illustrious father His Majesty's foremost concern (and of course mine as his loyal attendant) is for your safety and security. As such, I would dare to humbly request of milord that an escort accompany you to areas where dangerous riffraff" (he added a sniff at this) "has been known to dwell, most notably the cells and the Lower Town."
Arthur, accustomed since childhood to sitting through hours-long speeches from humorless dignitaries, was feeling a bit woozy by the end of the older man's breathless spew of words. However, he was able to catch one useful piece of intelligence amidst the slurry of unnecessary synonyms and jargon. Vortigern didn't want him near the dungeon cells alone. The rules about leaving the castle were expected, but this was something new. The chief-of-staff, despite his false humility, was obviously used to being obeyed without question by the household's labor force, so he wouldn't expect that anywhere he specifically discouraged Arthur from going would be exactly where he wanted to go.
Arthur excused himself, keeping his answer as brief as possible while still being polite. Luckily, he had ditched George to answer this summons. It was time for a visit to the dungeons.
~o8o~
As night fell, Arthur skirted the main byways of the castle, using little-used passageways he had just discovered (not that he had gotten lost, of course. That was too ridiculous to even consider; unplanned but useful reconnaissance was a much more apt name for how he had spent his last few hours). He slowed only to snatch a slightly dirty cloak with a large hood to hide his face from outside the kitchens: it was a common enough item to go unregistered around the castle, since the servants' quarters and hallways were not prioritized in heating the fortress, and if he was caught it was clean enough that he could claim it was some sort of Camelotian haute couture.
Arthur was disappointed in himself for not thinking to snoop in the dungeons on his own. They would certainly hold individuals unsympathetic to Vortigern's reign. Perhaps some of the prisoners were even there because they knew too much. While executions of these seemed more likely with his knowledge of Vortigern's internal policy, he might find prisoners of conscience with extenuating circumstances or even someone awaiting execution the next day. In any case, the gloomy vaults were more likely to yield results than waiting to stop being ignored, and Arthur, despite his station, had always been one to take crazy risks rather than loiter in safety.
Arriving at the ominously steep staircase downward, Arthur paused to take a calming breath. He fumbled in his coat pocket for the tools he had gathered while los–investigating. The leather ball's weight was reassuring in his hand, but even more comforting was the feeling of his fingers sliding smoothly into the four thick rings in the hilt of his blue steel knuckle-knife, the one he'd elected at the last minute to keep to himself at Maggie's. Fingers clenched comfortably over the knife's grip, the slightly pale royal stalked silently down the stone steps into darkness.
A few stairs from the bottom he paused, pressing himself against the rightmost wall and sneaking a cautious look at the broad landing below. The staircase represented the northern exit, with two more passages leading out from dark open archways and one closed and locked door on the room's southern side, opposite the stairway. Flickering firelight gave away the position of the six guards drinking and playing dice games at a small table next to a torch in a wall sconce, laughing and cheering raucously with each cast. Their post was against the northern wall, between the staircase and the western exit on Arthur's right. Arthur paused and reconsidered one of his assessments. Six guards? Even with valuable prisoners of war, Camelot's prison never employed more than four or so, and usually only two were posted. Arthur shook off the thought as unimportant for now: it would not affect his plan. The plan was deceptively simple, as his father had taught him most good ones were. This was the precarious part. Arthur switched his knife to his left hand and palmed the leather ball, a child's toy. He had practiced this trick as a child with Gwen, each trying to impress the other with his or her skill and strength first with a wooden hoop and then with a ball. Now, he called upon his muscle memory and resolved to thank Gwen for showing this to him if he ever got home. When. He had been realizing over the past few days alone that he would have to thank her for a lot of things. That rankled.
Drawing back his hand, palm facing down, Arthur launched the ball about ten feet into the wide room, jerking his hand in an odd motion as he released to put as much backspin on it as he could. The guards did not register as it flew silently into the room, but they took notice when it struck the stone floors loudly and began bouncing back in the direction of the darkened staircase, where a certain royal had retreated back into his hiding place, huddling against the bare wall and pulling his dark cloak over his face. Sure enough, after a moment of bleary-eyed confusion four of the soldiers disappeared at a run through the dark western corridor, from which it appeared that the flying object had emerged. Two chased the ball across the room toward the east wall. They picked it up and stared at it in bewilderment.
"Wot is it?" the first asked in a low, rumbling voice with a distinct lower-class accent.
"It's...a toy?" answered the other, her dark hair whipping around her face as she shook her head in confusion. She held it at arm's length and squashed it, muscles tense, then hesitantly brought it closer to herself and sniffed it. "Um...wot should we do? We need t' report this? Suspicious, but it en't much of a threat." Arthur smiled, unseen in the darkness.
"Well, I mean, I think we hafta. 'Specially with…." he trailed off, eyes darting to the southern door with an almost imperceptible shudder. "Do you want t' do it? Boss'll be asleep."
"No, you been at this longer than me, partner. Maybe he won' be as mad at you if it turns out to be nothing."
The rumbly-voiced guard grunted reluctantly. "'Aight, but if he has my head it's on yours." He shouldered his partner affectionately, and she jogged down the west corridor to join the other four guards as he started up the stairs.
This was when the lurking shadow chose to strike. He lunged forward, strong fingers pressing over the man's mouth as he tackled him, and they rolled down the stairs. Arthur's voluminous cloak did a little to muffle the clank of armor hitting the floor, but he would still have to act fast to avoid detection. Arthur managed to end up on top, knife to the guard's throat, but his ribs felt more than a little bruised from the heavier and better-armored man rolling over him. The soldier in question's eyes were wide, brown staring in shock at blue. Lifting his fist and angling the knife away, Arthur smashed his metal-reinforced knuckles into the man's head again and again. On the third hit, the brown eyes rolled back in their sockets. On the seventh, the guard was well and truly unconscious. Arthur delivered one more blow to ensure that his victim was down for the count. He hoped the guy would survive, but it wasn't too high on his list of priorities. He was trained to be a warrior, general of his sister's armies. He had killed strangers for Camelot before, and he would kill again.
As he dragged the deadweight through the dark east arch and concealed it behind some stacked shields (this appeared to be an armory), the teen grinned at his luck. He had been correct in that Esseti guards followed similar protocols to those at home, staying in pairs at the minimum and splitting up to identify threats. He had actually thought he would have to take out two guards instead of one, but fear of the man upstairs had saved him some trouble. Arthur ran lightly back out to the guards' table and grabbed a heavy iron key off its peg. Plain old laziness and absent-mindedness had worked in his favor as well: no-one had grabbed the keys in the rush out. He sprinted to the one locked door, inserted the key in the lock, and twisted it to the sound of a satisfying clink.
The door swung open silently, a yawning mouth ready to swallow him whole. Arthur returned the keys to their original position, then ran back and through the portal. As he silently swung the door closed, he heard muffled voices drifting in.
"Where'd it come from?"
"Chamber was empty. Must've been some idiot servant kids fooling around too close. God knows it en't the first time it's 'appened. Maybe someone lost a bet, just like Dennis here. Pay up, mate!"
"Aw, wot'r you on about? Those dice were clearly loaded. Think you can get yer tricks past me? Dennis don't miss a thing, mate."
The ensuing sounds of a scuffle ensured that quiet footsteps went undetected as a tall, sturdy frame disappeared into the impenetrable gloom.