Arc 2, Part 2.
The 'Privy chamber' far from being a glorified closet, or indeed a private room of any description, was a humungous hall. All along it's sides hung tapestries that dated back to when this room was the most royal of chambers in the Empire. The hall was lit with an array of permanent steady lights, flames frozen in mid dance yet still giving off their luminescence after literally centuries. At the very head of the rom sat a raised dais on which rested the jewelled Throne of Kings, and upon that reclined the single most powerful woman in the Empire.
Emmanuelle, The Countess of Nuln and Sudenland, Imperial Elector and most royal of aunts looked nothing short of divine. She was dressed in an ivory, pearl and snow lace gown that fanned out across the throne making it look like so much irrelevant scenery. Her Beautiful golden locks fell around her shoulders in an angelic spray, without a hint of grey in them to betray her full sixty years of age. Her face, although delicately dusted with the priciest makeup the city state had to offer, was a marvel of naturalness and inner beauty. Even as Ben entered some comment or another made the apparition laugh, and it was the tinkling of bells.
"Don't worry about it" hissed Ben's guide, "The glamour gets everyone like that." It was only then that the young Marcher Knight realised quite how gormless he must look as he stared at the Royal host. "Ready?" the man hissed and Ben took a moment to square his shoulders before nodding. Then he was announced.
"Sir Cromwell, Knight of Vaastmark, champion of the Grand Tourney, Champion of Campus Martius, Champion of Kemp, Master of the Sylvanian Laurel…" the list went on, and Ben tried not to look amazed. If he were to tell the truth he had lost count of how many of those tournament titles he had collected, but they obviously hadn't. By the time the herald finished every eye in the room was on the fur dressed knight that stood at its door. The silence was deafening.
" You are most welcome champion" announced a voice, clear and precise. Ben was silently wishing for the ground to open at the time so nearly missed the following 'invitation' in his haste to bow. "Please approach," the Countess finished, and any fool who took it as a request would have found a door far faster than they ever planned on.
Ben swallowed and strode as confidently as he could towards the throne, ignoring all around him and fixing his gaze upon the room's centrepiece. As he arrived he performed the 'authentic' bow that Catherine had taken an age to teach him and straightened, looking his hostess straight in the eye as he would any leader who was about to issue commands.
The room exploded into whispers, the sheer presumption of the man, how dare he? To look the Emperor's aunt in the eye like that. Half the room expected an immediate reprisal, the other half knew their ruler better.
Instead of indignation the royal Aunt reacted with interest, she raised a delicate eyebrow and waited for her guest to speak. A hint of a smile curled the corner of her lip, if nothing else this young man promised to add a little extra variety to the day.
"Your Grace. By your command, I stand ready for your orders," Ben offered formally with a textbook bow. In fact his brain was in near total eclipse and it was all he could think of to say. It was only after the words escaped that he realised just how silly he must sound.
"Indeed?" The countess replied, hiding her amusement just enough not to publicly shame the young man, "I do not remember issuing a command," she added almost as if she believed she might have been mistaken. Ben snorted, by now he had abandoned all attempts at higher brain functions and was operating purely on instinct.
"Your wish is our command" he retorted, wincing the moment he realised what he had said.
"Indeed" she echoed, "How nice of you to say so. But tell me Sir knight, how far exactly does that go?"
"Does what go?" Ben replied genuinely confused.
"Your willingness to follow my whims?" the countess continued with a smile.
"Your grace?" Ben queried, "You rule this city and the land it's in, we are your subjects, you command we obey." He seemed genuinely confused by the question.
"Go on?" The older woman prompted, leaning forward a little.
"As a subject in your land I owe you loyalty, as a knight I owe you duty. As a man of honour I can do no else."
"Ah" replied the countess, "hence your father." For the attendant crowd this was rapidly becoming more than a little surreal.
"Your grace?" Ben asked, lost by the non-sequitur.
"Your father behaved abominably to you," she explained, holding up a hand to stop his protests. "A fact that you will not agree on," she conceded, "but a fact nonetheless," she added, undoing the good of her earlier statement. "Despite this you sponsored your own company and rode to his rescue, even going so far as to hide your identity from him." Once again she had to hold up a hand to prevent him from interrupting, this time she backed it up with a pointed glare. "I may be old but I am not deaf, and any man that hires a quantity of my old guard warrants my attention," she explained, "especially if he then sets them up as his own retainers."
"Your grace" Ben objected. Only to be hushed by the countess once more.
"You must stop interrupting" she insisted, but her eyes were twinkling as she said it. "You set them up as your retainers. I know that in theory they are independent but are you seriously telling me that should you call they would not come running? No I thought not." She was leaning forwards once more, a mixture of mirth and hard intelligence in her eyes. "What interests me is why," she explained, "Not why you hired them or why you cam to this accommodation with them. Bnut why you would do this for your father." She paused and Ben was about to reply but she cut him off again, "And now I know. You are what we call an anachronism. It isn't an accurate description because the days of high chivalry are the invention of bards and historians" she spoke the last with venom. "And yet here you are, romantic ideals shining from you like you were a character in a chivalric lay, promising service to me. Well we shall see if we can't find you something fitting." With that she turned to a councillor near her and resumed a conversation she had been having before he was presented. The audience, or interrogation, was over.
"Fuckin' city folk," he muttered in Ost, confident that the southerners wouldn't catch his meaning. Suddenly adrift in the massive room, he toyed with the idea of making a break for fresh air, and then was forced to discard the idea in favour of a 'stay out of sight' plan. It wasn't to last, no sooner had he picked a secluded area than he was surrounded by people who obviously wanted to talk to him. It was not looking good.