<html> <body> --------- Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars II: Denuncio (d) Tuesday, June 22, 724 CR “Milord?” Charlie hissed and muttered as he felt a diffident hand upon his shoulder shake gently. “Milord? The Lady wishes you to rise and join her at the morning meal.” Charlie opened his eyes, let out a groan, and immediately clamped them shut again when the wan illumination of a candle sent a lance of throbbing agony piercing through his eye sockets. “G'way,” he rasped past the cotton battling in his throat. The hand, however, did not withdraw. “I have brought milord a drink recommended by your father.” The hand, judging by the thick hoof-like tips as that of Jackson the antelope, shifted down a bit to pull at Charlie. “Sit up, Charlie,” the antelope grunted in exasperation. “Your father gave me leave to have the house guard rouse you if I cannot.” Begrudgingly Charlie sat up, one hand quickly slapping across the bridge of his muzzle to cover his eyes against the blinding glare of the candle Jackson had brought into the room. A slow drumming beat through Charlie's skull and his muzzle felt as if he had been gnawing on a rotten birch limb all night. “What's the hour?” He groaned without opening his eyes, chin lowered, and cast his feet off the side of the bed. “The Chapel bells tolled their sixth not five marks ago.” Jackson offered. The gazelle withdrew a short distance to let Charlie sort himself out, but not so far that he could not step in if needed. When Charlie slipped off of the bed and lurched, out of balance, the young gazelle stepped in to grasp his elbow and steady him. In thanks he got an impatient push to one side as the young rat made a desperate, half-blind dash for the privy. “Shall I leave?” From behind the curtain Charlie let out a shuddering, relieved sigh. “No. No, Jackson, I'll have need of you forthwith. I reek and my fur is a wreck. If you could, slip down to the dining hall let my mother know I'm awake, and ill of sorts, but will attend her within the hour.” “As you wish, Charlie. I also had a bath drawn, if that suits.” “Perfectly!” Charlie gasped happily toward the quiet click of his door closing behind the antelope. ---------- Many minutes shy of a full hour later Charlie, freshly bathed, groomed, and casually garbed made his way to the family's dining hall. While the dull throb of his fading hangover still pulsed behind his eyes the agony of it, and imperative demands of nature that came with it, had lessened considerably. The unspeakably vile concoction his father, Malger, had the cooks concoct for him may have helped but in Charlie's regard all it did was leave a foul aftertaste he was desperate to alleviate with any sort of food his mother had laid out. Knowing the excess of libation that her son and husband had partaken in the previous day, evening, and night Misanthe had chosen a very light though filling menu of fresh harvested fruit, melons and berries mostly, and some light, flaky pastries with just enough seasoned meat to offer a savory counterpoint to the fruit without being too heavy. Suria and Misanthe were nibbling on that repast when Charlie arrived with Jackson in train. He offered his vulpine adoptive mother a box and light kiss upon the back of her black-furred hand before taking his seat. Jackson withdrew to a chair near the back wall. “Sleep well, brother?” Suria teased with a gleam in her golden eyes. Charlie favored her with a sour look, his long whiskers twitching. “Well enough. Where is father?” Misanthe chuckled softly. “Like you, Charlie, still reeling from far to much indulgence.” Judging from the relaxed warmth in his mother's voice indulgences of wine and spirits were not the only things enjoyed in excess. “But, like you, he rises when he's shaken solidly enough by his retainers. Unlike you, however, his raiment takes far longer to don.” Charlie plucked at his simple attire. “I'm not sure he knows what 'simple' is in a wardrobe.” Suria snorted a short nasal chuff of laughter while Misanthe merely nodded. “That he does not, no.” A hand landed lightly on Charlie's shoulder and a warm voice churred into one ear. “Nor am I crossing swords on the tournament field, so I can enjoy dressing to impress.” Malger's smooth tenor was humorous and light, evincing none of the achiness Charlie was still feeling. “Good morning to you, my darlings.” The slender, foppish pine marten slipped past Charlie after a cordial squeeze of his shoulder to sweep Suria into a firm embrace. With a spin and a dip he let her slip free in a graceful pirouette that brought him before Misanthe. In the same motion he drew her into a hug that ended with a deep dip and noisy buss upon the tip of her slender vulpine muzzle. Suria trilled a bark of laughter but Charlie found himself watching humorlessly. Either the lingering fog of alcohol was still numbing his brain or his thoughts had taken a dark turn. Suria a hug, Misanthe the same, and he – a mere squeeze upon his shoulder as Bryn might offer. Friendship alone, nothing more familial? He pushed the remnants of a meat pie into his muzzle and wandered from the dining hall. Jackson quickly fell into step slightly behind and to one side. “Once you and Hogue are done with my quarters you two are free to enjoy the festival.” He did not look back toward his servitor and merely waived a hand dismissively. He trusted them to collect whatever of his own that managed to make it back to the household with him late in the night and the remainder where it was, with all likelihood, being stored and secured by the Duke's guards beneath the High Box. He left on foot through the Duke's gate without bothering to ask Maysin to caparison herself as his mount for the morning. It was not a long walk and he felt disinclined to ride anyway. The streets were beginning to come alive with the awakening festival crowd, mostly vendors and others for whom the festival was a full time job who never had an opportunity to get out and enjoy it to quite the extent so many others did. Food vendors and craftsfolk bent the entirety of their festival days working where farmers and trappers and miners and others whose jobs could not be brought to the event could distract themselves from those labors and enjoy the days. And there were those like Charlie; the jobless, whose lives were centered around pursuits of either sybaritic excess or cerebral pursuits such as diplomacy and trade. Such things few of the busy crafts folk eying Charlie in his relaxed doublet and hose, expensive by their standards, as he walked along the streets unencumbered by the weight of trade goods would ever know. Little did they know the truth of the weight that he did bear; the knowledge that their Kingdom was ever under siege from those who wished its riches but were too terrified of its curse to make a bold face-on assault to claim it. Instead they turned to more subtle machinations; hiring poisoners, assassins, spies, and thieves to sow the seeds of discontent and distrust. And it was down to so very, very few to find those agents and put a stop to them; the spy master Andwyn and his shadowy web of informants, Malger and Charlie as sentinels ever alert for the dreams of those who meant harm to Metamor or its leaders. He paused only once on his way to the pavilions behind the High Box; one of the merchants had an array of flavored sticks for rodents like him and many others in the Keep, and the sweet blend of cherry wood with a honey glaze turned his steps. He paid what the merchant asked and the coin left his hands and his mind a moment later as he resumed his way, the rich flavor pleasing his tongue as the gnawing soothed his teeth and settled some of his nerves. On arriving at the pavilions Charlie was surprised to see a group of unfamiliar banners snapping in the morning breeze. Rising on stout wooden poles fashioned from some mountain species, either fir or spruce, were black pinions worn along the edges with a symbol of tall cliffs framing a silver wolf's head; the wolf's jaws were opened in a snarl that almost glistened with the bright thread in each fang. Amongst them were smaller banners with a coarse tan field on which a running horse surmounted a field of knives. Charlie frowned as he studied them, but could not recall if he had ever seen either heraldry before. Still gnawing on the honey-glazed cherry stick, he let his gaze study the men gathered beneath those banners. Their manner was foreign with rough skin, dark hair, broad faces with large noses and ears, and somewhat narrow eyes that squinted. But each man had a girth that dwarfed Charlie and a bow to their legs that spoke of a lifetime spent on horseback. Nearby he spied several horses with feathered hocks, broad shoulders, and powerful muscles with rippling golden coats. He felt a bit of an awe in their presence and could not say why. Having arrived before his entire family, servants and all, their pavilion was empty without even a single lantern lit to welcome him. Charlie stretched in the shadowed interior, found his armor and weapons where he'd left them after his last bout, gently ran his fingers and little claws across the smooth haft of one of his narrow blades, and then abruptly turned and left the pavilion. There wouldn't be any matches for another hour; he could wait to don his gear. Argamont was waiting behind the High Box with the Duke's soldiers and mounts. The stallion looked no worse the wear for all the tankards he'd downed yesterday. A whicker of pleasure escaped his throat as he lifted his long head from the game of dice he shared with the other soldiers waiting on each of their masters. “Good morning, Lord Charlie,” he said and then gestured up the stairs. “Lord Bryn needs a little rescuing. Where's Maysin?” “She'll be along shortly. I decided to walk this morning.” He cast a curious glance up the stairs and the heavy curtains shielding the doorway into the High Box. His large ears easily picked up the sound of many voices, especially the boisterous shouting and neighing of Phillip, amidst the constant excited murmuring that suffused Metamor at festival-time. But from Bryn he heard nothing. “Why does he need rescuing?” Argamont and the other soldiers grinned with wicked aplomb. “The Duchess may have found our young stallion a filly.” Charlie wondered anew at the pinions and whose house they belonged to as he nodded his thanks for the warning to Argamont. He slipped his chewstick within his belt as he walked up the stairs and slipped through the double curtain. The High Box had been complemented with another set of chairs for their visitors. The black pinion with cliffs and snarling, silver wolf was draped across the front railing and adorning the odd but modest attire of the human guests. Most of them bore garments of gray and brown with feathered collars and sleeves, but three were different – two men who appeared almost thirty years of age and a young woman more to their age. One of the men was swarthy with black hair and rugged complexion like the horsemen waiting by the pinions; he was armored but bore no weapon; a long cape of tan wrapped him about the shoulders as he stood behind the other man and the young woman seated not far from Duke Thomas and Duchess Alberta. The young woman, no older than Suria, bore a gown decorated with feathers and streamers in a pleasing blend of colors, but always the suggestion of the silver wolf lurked in the arrangements. Her face was pale with thin cheeks and slender jaw. Raven black hair tied as if it were a silken mane graced her neck. And though her eyes were dark they seemed rich as well like chestnuts left to warm by the fire. The other man sat with one hand on her wrist as she observed their hosts with an apprehensive stare. He bore a breastplate of shimmering silver, a cloak of black on which the shining cliffs and wolf were clearly embroidered, and an expression of awe and wonder in his countenance. At his side rested a long silver blade with a black shaft running the entire tang, the only weapon of all their guests permitted in the High Box. And in his lap his other hand rested upon a helmet whose workmanship made Charlie gasp and marvel. Fashioned from silver over steel was the head of a giant snarling wolf. Its appearance was startling and yet somehow he knew he had heard of it before. “Ah, Lord Charlie,” Thomas said when his awe did give voice to a rat-like squeak. “Come, and do homage. We are hosts to a royal lineage stretching back a thousand years! This is King Pelaeth of Vysehrad and his sister Princess Brygitta. With them is their escort across the Steppe, First Hunter Horvig of the Tagendend. Your majesty, this is Lord Charlie Sutt, son and heir of Archduke Malger Sutt of Sutthaivasse.” Charlie bowed deeply toward the king and princess, cataloging their names, their homelands, and their heraldry so that he would never forget them again. “It is a great honor to meet you, your majesties.” “The honor 'tis ours, Lord Sutt,” Pelaeth said in a Steppelander accent so thick and guttural that Charlie's whiskers drooped as he parsed the syllables for sense. “Mine uncle didst oft recount the bravery of thy kin and the tale of vict'ry o'er the man of cards. One wast a rat like thyself; true nobility knows no shape.” “Thou art well spoken, thy majesty,” Alberta said with a nod of her brow, long ears upright and neatly trimmed. “Lord Sutt,” the gruff man Horvig said with a frown. “I didst meet the brave Keepers yon majesty speaketh of.” The man's eyes were eagle sharp above wind-roughened cheeks as he regarded Charlie with a slow downward and upward rake. “Dost tell me, as thou art a rat, dost thee know of another, a rat likened to thyself, who wast stone whenst he through our lands traveled? Older he wouldst be, of the lineage – ah, Matthias?” Charlie winced, one hand gripping his breeches to keep his claws from digging too far into his palms. He took a deep breath and, with a polite nod toward the horseman, he offered his best attempt at a smile. “Aye, I know whom you speak of. Baron Matthias is my sire. He gave me to my father when I was but two to raise, ere he received a title of his own. My sire has told me the story of his journey across the lands of the south, and the Steppes.” The sight of the golden horses waiting behind the High Box made him wonder, recalling a part of the tale. “Are the golden horses yours. Are they...?” “Art they of the lineage of Rheh?” Horvig nodded slowly as a smile exaggerated the crow's feet at the corners of his shrewd eyes. “Aye, they art.” The big man's expression filled with an immense pride and joy as if some one had placed a newly born son in his arms. And then his eyes settled on the rat again and he bowed at the waist, posture stiff but displaying genuine gratefulness. “'T'is an honor to meet any son of the brave Matthias of Metamor.” His stomach turned in knots as his eyes cast about for any excuse to leave the High Box. They settled on Bryn who had just risen from a seat close by but not too close to the princess. “Thank you, First Hunter. I can assure you that you will see Baron Matthias on the tourney field today and I am sure he would be more than happy to renew old acquaintances and to give you due honor.” Stepping back he sketched a brief bow. “Your majesties, I fear though that I must be off; Lord Bryn and I have our own bouts to prepare for and neither of us appear to be suitably armored for battle!” Both King Pelaeth and the First Hunter offered words of encouragement to them in their battles and Alberta gave her son an arch stare that assured him he would not escape from his duties forever. The princess also watched Bryn, her gaze cast into the distance but, to Charlie's perception, keenly focused on the young equine duke-to-be. Charlie was too distracted and wanted too much to gnaw on his stick again to ponder what the young woman meant by that gaze. As quickly as was polite both heirs to ducal houses fled the High Box. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>