~Chapter Seven~
A Warm Welcome
The Longdocks, Aldar
Kingdom of Cedirc
7th Day of Pendelius, 247 A.C.
Midday
As it turned out, Rolan had quite a while longer to recover his calm before having to treat with the Eno’Kalians than he had thought. By the time the Eno’Kalians were ready to disembark, the sun was high in the sky.
He and his entourage waited patiently for the mooring lines to be tossed from the foreign vessel to waiting Trekon dockhands to be tied to the pier. Once the ship was secured, the gangplank was lowered and set on the dock.
“Where is the High Lord?” Elenor whispered to Rolan as they waited for the vessel to be secured, looking down the length of the dock towards the distant city, “Was he not to be here to greet the delegates with us?”
“He had other matters to attend to, but hoped he would be able to meet us in Quayside after,” Rolan replied in a similar tone, careful to keep it neutral as he wondered what could have been so important to draw the High Lord away from meeting the Eno’Kalians. His eyes following her gaze momentarily before returning his regard to the orange masted vessel in front of them.”
“Smart man,” Steffan muttered, “I wish I would have thought of an excuse like that.”
“He is excited to meet our visitors,” Rolan continued as if Steffan had not spoken, though he did scowl briefly at his brother, but quickly smoothed his features once more, “The forthcoming treaty will mean more trade for the kingdom—and for Aldar in particular. The city is on the cusp of prosperity, a prosperity not seen since the Ilvarri War, and Elboreth knows it.”
Steffan scoffed again at Roland’s assured proclamation, but did not speak again. Elenor swatted her younger brother from behind Rolan’s back, earning her a glare from Steffan.
“The High Lord would be a fool not to see the benefits of the agreement,” Rolan insisted firmly in response to Steffan’s clear skepticism, “He sees past Aldar’s history with Eno’Kalia, and is able and willing put aside past grudges and bereavements for the greater good of his people,” he turned to regard Steffan as he finished, “As any ruler should.”
That earned him another glare from his younger brother, but any response Steffan may have given was interrupted as the pounding of heavy foot falls reached their ears. The three DeCarrens turned to watch as a red faced, sweaty Arlen Payter hurried to the base of the gangplank. There followed a short exchange of words, after which one of the sailors aboard the Eno’Kalian vessel, clearly annoyed, angrily tossed a small pouch towards the Aldarians. It jingled softly as the aide scrambled to catch it, almost fumbling the purse into the waters of the bay. Chagrined, the young man passed the pouch to Payter, studiously studying the planks of the dock as he did. The dockmaster took the offered pouch, glanced inside to confirm its contents, and hefted it to judge the weight. Apparently satisfied, he nodded to the assistant as he pocketed the purse.
Rolan frowned as he watched all of this.
The Eno’Kalians were here at the King’s express invitation, after all, and were not to pay for their berth. That had been seen to by the Crown through Elboreth himself—Rolan had confirmed as much with the High Lord the night before.
He watched as the aide pulled a quill and ink pot from a pouch on his belt, removing a board with several sheets of parchment tied to it that hung at his side as well. Dipping the tip into the ink, the aide quickly scrawled a few lines down on the parchment before blowing on it to dry the ink on the paper before letting it fall to his side once more. He dried the quill off on an ink-stained sleeve before shoving it and the re-stoppered vial of ink into the pouch, fastening the clasp with a practiced gesture. With a nod to the still-scowling sailor that watched from aboard the vessel, Arlen and his assistant turned to head back towards the city, the dockmaster looking immensely pleased with himself. Both men averted their gazes, carefully avoiding looking at the DeCarrens as they approached.
“A moment, sirs,” Rolan said, stepping forward and grabbing the arm of the aide to stop him; behind him and to his side, he heard Lorrik’s boots thump as he moved to block the progress of the two men.
“My prince?” Arlen Payter managed to sound confused as he stopped and turned back to face Rolan, though his gaze did not go past the prince’s chest.
“It was my understanding that the docking of the Solarius had been paid for in advance, Dockmaster Payter.”
“Are ye certain, my prince?” Payter had the good grace to look abashed and unsure.
“I am.”
At Rolan’s terse response, a look of annoyance flashed across the dockmaster’s sun-kissed face before he donned a look of confusion once more. Sighing, Payter snapped his fingers as he held a calloused hand out towards the aide, who looked at the hand that still gripped his arm. Rolan removed it, crossing his arms across his face as, with a glance to the dockmaster, the aide pulled the writing tablet from his belt once more and passed it to Payter’s waiting hand.
With another glance towards Rolan—or rather, past him—the dockmaster began leafing through the manifests affixed to the tablet, making a show of reading each carefully before flipping to the next page. After flipping past multiple entries, he jabbed a finger at one entry, eyes widening in feigned surprise as he looked up from the docking logs.
“Er, apologies, sire,” Payter met Rolan’s eyes for the first time, continuing his pantomime of ignorance as he continued in his gravelly voice, “The berth were paid for in advance of their arrival, but no ship name were recorded. A simple mistake, ye understand,” he smiled, though it did not reach his eyes.
“Of course… An easy one to make,” Rolan gave a tight smile, keeping his tone neutral though he severely wanted to berate the man. He held out a rose coloured hand, waiting.
The aide stared blankly at that hand until the dockmaster nudged him, none to gently, in the ribs. Rubbing his side, the aide shot Arlen a shocked look until the dockmaster nodded his head towards Rolan’s waiting hand. Begrudgingly, pulled the softly clinking pouch of coins from his pocket and, with a quickly concealed grimace, held it out to Rolan.
The prince took it, immediately noting the considerable weight of the pouch; clearly the dockmaster had not only hoped to get paid for the Solarius’ berth twice, but had also wanted to charge the foreigners more than the standard rate. He arched an eyebrow at the two men, both of whom swallowed hard and bowed, muttering further apologies and assurances that it had been nothing but an honest mistake before straightening and, at a nod from Rolan, slipping between Lorrik and one of the Bear Guard who had moved to block their path, retreating back down the dock towards the bustling city.
The prince watched the two Aldarians rush of with a mixture of amusement and disappointment, noting that the younger aide glanced back several times, abject disappointment clear on his face each time; Rolan felt no small amount of satisfaction upon seeing that. Arlen, for his part, did not look back once, though the fists that kept clenching and unclenching at the dockmaster’s sides told Rolan that he, too, was seething.
Passing the purse to his left hand, he heaved a deep sigh and, with a slight shake of his head, returned his attention to the deck of the ship. A tan skinned, bald, rotund man whom Rolan judged to be in his fifties, dressed in an orange and brown shirt and breeches with the blazing sun emblem of Eno’Kalia emblazoned on his chest had taken the place of the sailor who had dealt with Payter. The man had stopped at the top of the gangplank, no doubt watching the proceedings as Rolan had recovered the coin purse from Alren and his aide. The Eno’Kalian was even now watching the dockmaster and his aide retreat down the dock, a small smile lifting the corners of his thin lips.
Noting Rolan’s regard, his dark eyes shifted fully to the prince, but though that same grin remained, he did not move from where he stood. Long moments passed by and still the Eno’Kalian made no move to leave the ship, aside from shifting from side to side in a small show of uncertainty and confusion. His gaze shifted between Rolan and his siblings, moving and back and forth as if searching—or waiting—for something.
With a cough, Lorrik moved beside the elder prince and nudged him gently. Rolan glanced at the captain, surprised, and then he realized why the Eno’Kalian had not disembarked.
The official greeting.
Silently cursing himself for his lapse—how could he have forgotten?—Rolan hurriedly stepped forward to the base of the gangplank, hearing his siblings follow behind him. Clearing his throat, Rolan met the eyes of the waiting Eno’Kalian once more, who stood and straightened under his regard.
“Welcome, honoured guests of Alfred DeCarren. We welcome you to these shores and to the lands beyond in his name. Please, step ashore as friends and be at ease; on our honour, none here will harm you,” Rolan recited the agreed upon greeting that Malute had drilled into him before their departure from Caras.
As he finished the recitation, he found himself wondering at the validity of that promise given all that he had seen and heard in Aldar since their arrival. He fervently hoped it was, but could not stop that nagging doubt from wriggling its way back into his thoughts. Not wanting to go down that line of thought in this moment, he forced himself to focus on the delegate’s response as the Eno’Kalian spoke in loud baritone to carry from the deck of the ship.
“We give thanks for your welcome, and for your promise of safety whilst in your domain. We hope that we will one day be able to extend you the same courtesy you show us on our distant shores,” the bald man sounded almost bored, speaking the agreed-upon response in a monotonous tone. As he finished, though, he cocked his head to one side, and a gleam came into his dark eyes as he appraised Rolan, “You are the elder son of King Alfred?”
“I am indeed, sir, and I have the great honour of accompanying you to the capitol,” Rolan replied, sweeping an arm out to the side, towards Aldar, “Please, step ashore and be welcome.”
“Oh, enough of that,” the portly man waved an arm as if to brush the formalities aside, the gilded sleeve containing the arm rippling through the air as he began striding purposefully down the ramp, which shook and rattled against the dock under his heavy footfalls. Other Eno’Kalians, similarly dressed in predominantly orange and brown attire, all bearing the sunburst and spears symbol of the island nation, appeared on the deck above and behind the descending delegate, who came to a stop directly in front of the prince, eying him appraisingly, “So you are Prince Rolan, eh?” He extended a chubby hand to the prince, who reached out his own to clasp the man about the wrist as he felt sweaty fingers surround his own briefly before both men disengaged, “You are the spitting image of you father! For a moment, I was certain I had stepped back in time!”
“And now I am seeing double!” the Eno’Kalian exclaimed loudly as his eyes moved from Rolan to Steffan, who stood behind his elder brother, rambling on before Rolan could get a word out “You would be Prince Steffan, if I am not mistake—and I rarely am! And you are the Princess Elenor—you have more of your lovely mother in you, the good gods be praised!” He let out a loud, boisterous laugh as he stepped back, almost tripping on the edge of the gangplank behind him as his dark eyes scanned across the three DeCarrens, who stared back at him in stunned silence as he added in a quieter tone, “It is a great pleasure to meet you all.”
“As it is to meet you,” Rolan said, at last finding his tongue in the wake of the large man’s verbal barrage as he finally stopped for a breath. He searched his mind for the representative’s name, finally deciding who this must be from all of Malute’s lectures on the delegates, “Lord Hazrim.”
“You—you met our parents?” Elenor exclaimed from behind, almost at the same time Rolan said the man’s name, her excitement and incredulity echoing his own. When had he had the opportunity, after all, with the two nations at war for so long?
“But of course! Who do you think first met with them all those years ago to begin these proceedings?” Elkar Hazrim asked with another loud laugh. He sobered quickly, however, his round face falling as he added somberly, “I was terribly sorry to hear of the good Queen’s passing.”
“We shall all die of old age if you do not keep moving, Elkar,” a deep timbered, yet distinctly feminine voice cut in from behind the portly man, who jumped as if startled. A tall, hawk-nosed woman had descended the gangplank while Elkar had been talking, and now stood peering at the DeCarren’s over the shorter man’s shoulder.
“Th-these things cannot be rushed, my dear Antonia,” Elkar protested over his shoulder at the taller woman, quickly stepping to the side in spite of his protest, “The proprieties must be attended to, after all.”
“Proprieties such as introductions?” the woman asked in a falsely sweet voice as she stepped of the ramp to join Elkar Hazrim on the dock, eyes boring into her counterpart as she arched a thin eyebrow at him.
“Precisely!” Elkar exclaimed excitedly, grinning widely for a moment until her not-so-subtle reminder sunk in. His cherubic face fell as he searched for a response, eyes falling to the gangplank, “Oh! Well… then, uh, that is…”
Rolan exchanged amused looks with Elenor as the rotund representative kept stammering for a response for many more moments. He drew Rolan’s attention back to him as the flustered Eno’Kalian cleared his throat with a great harrumph, shaking his head as if to clear it at the same time he cleared his throat.
“Deepest apologies, my lady,” he bowed deeply to the woman, who looked anything but amused or conciliatory, before looking to Rolan once more. He cleared his throat again.
“Prince Rolan, Prince Steffan,” he gave a small bow to each as he named them, dark eyes shining once more as he continued, “Princess Elenor. Allow me the pleasure if introducing the others selected by our glorious Emperor to represent his will in all matters pertaining to this most important treatise,” he stepped forward once more, moving so he was beside Rolan, clearing the way for the waiting hawk-nosed woman. He swept an arm out towards her as she stepped off the gangplank, stopping in front of Rolan, “This is the delightful Lady Antonia Fedisse, third cousin to the Emperor himself, on her father’s side. She has been a part of these talks almost as long as I have.”
The woman—Antonia—lifted the front of her orange slashed, brown ruched dress to give him and his siblings the slightest of curtsies, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Princes and Princess of Cedirc, but it is regretful that the King himself did not deem it necessary to come and greet us himself,” she arched a thin eyebrow, the scorn in her voice evident as she continued, :I do hope that not indicate that his interest in this treatise is waning. It would be a shame if all our hard work came to naught after years of hard negotiations.”
“I assure you, our father is as invested now as he was the day he first approached your emperor, Lady Fedisse,” Rolan responded after a long moment, carefully keeping his tone light and pleasant in spite of his annoyance at her accusation. He gave her a slight bow as he continued, “He deeply regrets that he could not be here himself to welcome you to his country, but he had some last minute preparations to finish in the capitol prior to your arrival.”
Preparations like stopping the assassination attempts once and for all before we give them new targets, he added mentally, fighting back a hint of anxiety at the thought and praying that the trap his father had prepared had worked as intended.
Malute and Rabberick had told Rolan of his father’s gambit just prior to his leaving the capitol with his siblings, with strict instructions not to mention it to either Elenor or Steffan. Fortunately, Lorrik knew of the situation as well, seeing as he was Rabberick’s second in command of the Talons, so Rolan was able to discuss it with the captain when they had found time away from the others. Neither much liked the plan—which put them on the same page as the mage and commander, as his meeting with the King’s closest advisers had made abundantly clear.
Not one of them approved of the King’s plan, but he was their king, so what could they do?
They had received no word from Gryphon’s Roost since arriving in Aldar, and Rolan was still trying to determine if that was a good sign or not. The old adage that no news was good news kept coming back to him, but each time it was met with the certainty that if the trap had worked as planned, and the assassin had been caught, they would surely have sent word to him or Lorrik.
But they had not.
He could not help but feel that that silence bode ill.
“He is eager to greet you upon our arrival in Caras,” he added, doing his best to keep a placid, welcoming expression as Antonia studied his face, not wanting to give even a hint of the uncertainty, doubt and concerns roiling within him.
She pursed her lips, considering him for a long moment before finally saying, “He had better be,” and adjusting her black hair, which had been tied into a bun atop her head, as she moved off to the side to let the next of the visitors disembark.
An imperious looking man wearing leather armour, dyed black and slashed with Eno’Kalian orange marched down the plank, his polished black leather boots thudding loudly with ever step he took. His dark green, almost black eyes scanned Rolan up and down, openly taking his measure as had Antonia before him, as he stopped before the prince.
His left hand rested on the silver, sunstone encrusted hilt of the fine rapier he wore at his hip, the gemstones glittering bright orange in the morning sunlight. A salt and pepper beard framed his wide face, and his likewise grey-streaked long black hair was pulled up in a ponytail that swayed behind him with every step. Wrinkles creased his tanned face, but his sure, steady strides on the shaking gangplank told Rolan beyond a doubt that, in spite of his aged appearance, this man was still a force to be reckoned with.
“And this is Lord Roussan Ungalt, brother to the late emperor, and uncle and principal adviser to Emperor Darren Ungalt II,” Elkar announced, pride and deference ringing clear in his tone as he bowed to the regal looking man.
Like Antonia before him, Roussan Ungalt gave the curtest of bows, not once taking his dark green eyes from the three DeCarrens, “It is a pleasure, I am sure,” he rumbled, stiffly but cordially, in a deep bass, “I do wish Alfred himself had deigned to make the journey. I do hope that whatever matters held him up were worth it.”
“No slight was intended by his absence, Lord Roussan,” Rolan replied in as polite a tone as he could muster as he bit back further annoyance at the Eno’Kalian delegation’s continued insinuations to the contrary. He also had not missed the familiar nature, and lack of title, with which Roussan had referred to his father, and he stressed the honorific when he added, “King Alfred awaits your arrival in Caras with much anticipation.”
“We shall see,” Roussan replied simply with a sniff, striding off the gangplank to stand beside Antonia—beside his niece, Rolan realized as he considered Elkar’s introductions. The tall mans attention was fully on the cliff-side city, dismissing the DeCarrens as if they were no longer worthy of his attention.
Rolan heard Steffan’s sharp inhalation from behind him at the clear slight, and shot his brother a warning glare before smoothing his features and returning his attention to Elkar, who alone of the three remained beside him, Antonia having followed in Roussan’s wake. The representative shifted with obvious uncertainty from foot to foot, and had the good grace to look embarrassed as Roussan and Antonia made their way to the city without a backwards glance. The portly Eno’Kalian watched his fellow delegates depart a moment longer, then cleared his throat, drawing the regard of the Cedircians back to him.
“Ah, well, that’s that, then,” he said, clapping his hands together loudly as he turned to fully face the DeCarren’s once more as Eno’Kalian soldiers, silvery chain shirts glistening beneath orange tabards, began marching down the gangplank in wake of the nobles, boots thumping loudly on the boards as they descended from the ship.
The elder prince did a quick count of the soldiers, nodding with satisfaction as he noted that only six of the soldiers disembarked, two for every representative, as had been agreed. He could see more milling about the deck of the ship, with more than one focusing their attention on he and his siblings, but none made any attempt to leave the ship to follow their fellows. Three of the Eno’Kalians who had disembarked held spears, bucklers strapped firmly to their forearms, the sun and spears painted across the wooden slats of each. The other half of the foreign contingent had short, slightly curved swords sheathed at their sides, and bore large wooden shields, painted int eh same fashion as the bucklers. Each of the six also had a crossbow strapped to their backs, and he could only imagine that each had a pack of bolts residing within one of the pouches on their belts. He felt his lips compress into a thin line as he regarded the weapons, but held himself back from saying anything.
Though he fervently wished otherwise, he knew that there was no guarantee that the weapons would not be needed for defense of the delegates during their short time in Aldar.
“Shall we proceed to the city, then?” Elkar asked once the soldiers had all moved past them—a question borne of politeness rather than necessity, Rolan knew, since Roussan was already well on his way down the pier.
With a sidelong glance at his siblings, noting Steffan’s furrowed brow and the faint concern on Elenor’s face that echoed what he, too, felt, the prince nodded at Elkar’s suggestion. The Eno’Kalian, seeming oblivious to the consternation of his hosts, clapped his hands together in delight as a wide grin spread across his face once more. A moment later he was hustling after his colleagues, moving as fast as his short legs could carry him in an attempt to catch up to them.
“This should go well,” he heard Steffan mutter sarcastically from behind, and Rolan found that he could not argue the sentiment as he watched the orange-clad retinue make their way down the pier.
“Come on,” he said instead, setting off at a brisk pace, “Let’s show them how Cedirc treats their guests.”
Steffan and Elenor shared another look behind Rolan’s back as their brother hurried off, his deep purple cape flowing behind him with each stride of his long legs. Lorrik, concern clear in his eyes, gave them a quick jerk of his head before turning and falling in behind Rolan, leaving the two of them alone for a moment.
The youngest DeCarren did not miss the slight movement as the captain loosened his sword in his scabbard, though the blond man had clearly meant it to appear as nothing more than a casual gesture.
His frowned deepened along with his consternation.
“Come on,” Elenor grabbed her younger brother’s arm, not having noticed the captain’s movement, “It won’t be as bad as you think.”
She had been correct, he would later recall.
It was not as bad as he had expected.
It was, in fact, worse.
The Eno’Kalians had barely set foot off the pier their ship had berthed at, entering the waterside district of Quayside, when the trouble began.
Still hurrying to catch up to the determined strides of Roussan Ungalt and his entourage, Rolan was not sure what had started the excitement. Given his short exchange with Antonia and Roussan both, he had a fair guess that either one had something to do with it as he watched a crowd of Aldarians grow in front of the visitors, faces looking none too pleased. The six Eno’Kalian soldiers had spread into a protective semicircle in front of the dignitaries, though Rolan was doubtful how useful that would prove. The mob may be unarmed, but if push came to shove, his money would be on the throng of angry Aldarians that even now were shouting profanities, insults, and who knew what else at the foreigners.
He did note, with no small amount of relief, that the foreign soldiers bore only their shields and bucklers, and had left their weapons sheathed—for the moment, at least, though they were clearly on edge, and more than one glanced back at the dignitaries, as if seeking commands.
Rolan prayed that they had the good sense to keep those weapons sheathed. Bloodshed would do them no good here.
“Stay here,” he ordered his siblings, who were close behind him, not wanting them to get caught up in the frenzy should the barely suppressed anger boil over completely.
“But—“
“Stay here,” he said in a tone that brook no argument, cutting off Steffan’s predictable protest, “And be on your guard.”
When no further protest came from his younger brother, and seeing Elenor’s nod, Rolan spun about and stepped towards the end of the pier, hoping he could quell the growing discord.
What small hope he had dwindled the closer he drew, however.
“My good sirs,” Elkar Hazrim was shouting in a vain attempt to be heard above the crowds cacophony as the eldest son of Alfred DeCarren at last caught up to group. The large dignitary had his hands spread wide in a beseeching gesture in front of him as he added, “And ma’ams, of course. My good sirs and ma’ams, we are in your fair city at the behest of your king!”
Closer now, Rolan could make out some of the jeering responses to the delegates pleas.
“And who says he can give that permission?”
“He en’t been ‘ere, he can’t speak fer us!”
“Get back to yer ship, ye dogs!”
“Mage killers!”
The chorus of shouts went on as Rolan stepped up beside Elkar, the bald man noting his arrival and giving the prince a sheepish, helpless look.
“Get this rabble under control,” Roussan demanded in a harsh voice from behind.
“This is the welcome you prepared for us?” Antonia’s waspish voice has much higher pitched as she asked the accusatory question.
Rolan ignored the pair as he surveyed the crowd. His appearance at the Eno’Kalian’s side had elicited a mixed response from the incensed throng. Some had quieted, and now watched curiously, while others had only been incited by his presence, their mistrust of him and his siblings more evident as new shouts joined the rising clamour.
“Devil-spawn!”
“Traitors!”
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“Morith take ye all, ye bastards!”
Rolan stood tall in the wake of the insults, bearing them as he had the silent, judgmental looks since their arrival, refusing to bend now. He could handle it.
Lorrik appeared at his side as the DeCarren and Trekon guards moved to stand beside the Eno’Kalians, their hands on weapons as they bolstered the visitor’s ranks. It was odd to see the orange tabards mixed in with those of the local green and black garb of the Trekons and the purple and gold attire of Rolan’s own men.
It was an odd sight, yes,, but also reaffirmed his belief in the importance of the treaty.
“We should go back to the ship,” Lorrik said to the prince, speaking loudly to be heard over the tumult.
“No,” Rolan said shortly, shaking his head, “They’ll not—“
The rest of what he was going to say was lost as something soft and wet splattered against his cheek, startling him into silence. He felt a wetness growing where it had impacted, and he raised a hand to scrape off some of what had struck him.
A tomato.
A rotten tomato, he corrected, seeing the green mold and brown skin mixed within the fruit’s juices and seeds.
At least they were not wasting good produce, he mused as he ducked, raising an arm to cover his face as more rotten projectiles came at them. Lorrik moved protectively in front of him, objects pinging off the captain’s plate and shield. Beside him, Elkar likewise covered his face, turning so the fruit and vegetables struck his back and side instead of his face. Rolan grabbed hold of the Eno’Kalian’s clothes, pulling him closer to himself behind Lorrik, offering the man more protection even as darker orange and brown spots appeared on his clothes, marking where the overripe projectiles struck.
He turned to note that Roussan had likewise turned his back to the crowd, the mushy fruit striking the orange cloak the noble wore, juices and pieces of fruit running down the water resistant clothing. The foreign lord was hunched protectively about Antonia, who had made herself as small as possible, her face a mask of anger as she glared at Rolan, as if accusing him of causing this.
And, he realized, considering her words upon his arrival, she likely was.
“Cover us, and set a cordon at the piers edge,” he ordered Lorrik, shouting to be heard above the clamour of the agitated crowd as more fruit bounced off them both, though the captain was but a few paces away from him.
Jaw set, Lorrik nodded, and Rolan turned his head towards the delegates, raising his voice still further to make sure they heard him, “Get back to your ship!”
“I’ll not be turned back by this rabble!” Roussan declared, turning to face him and standing tall, hand on the hilt of his rapier. He began to pull the weapon free even as Elkar grabbed Antonia’s arm and began to pull the noblewoman back towards the pier, the hawk-nosed woman offering little resistance as she lost her cover as her uncle stood.
“Don’t!” Rolan cried, surging towards the nobleman and grabbing his arm before the older man could draw it fully.
“You dare?” the nobleman asked, incredulity mixed with anger twisting his face. His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed as he glared at Rolan, “You dare to lay your hand on the royal line of Ungalt?”
“They certainly won’t hesitate,” Rolan retorted, leading the enraged noble’s gaze to the clamorous mob before them.
“Then they will be taught better!”
“Roussan!” Elkar shouted from behind before Rolan could argue, panic evident in his shaky voice, “Roussan, we are not in our own country!”
Roussan hesitated at his colleague’s words, his eyes flitting from the rotund man to Rolan, then to the surging crowd, and back to Rolan.
With a snarl, and looking immensely displeased as he did so, he thrust is rapier back into his sheath as more fruit and vegetables sored over the blocking soldiers, some bouncing off him, others squishing and splattering him with their juices. The pungently sweet smell of rotten produce was beginning to fill the air as it piled at their feet.
Rolan drew a relieved breath as the older man swirled about, cloak flaring behind him, and began stalking down the pier, Elkar and Antonia following in his wake. Elkar managed to throw the prince an apologetic look as he followed Roussan before he was lost to the princes sight as two green clad Trekon soldiers moved to cover their retreat from more projectiles, inching backwards as more fruit bounced off their shields. Rolan noted his siblings standing further back on the pier, watching the growing commotion from safety behind a number of Trekon and DeCarren soldiers.
Thus assured in the safety of the delegates and his siblings, Rolan turned his attention back to the tumultuous crowd. The Cedircian soldiers, Trekon and DeCarren both, had formed up in a protective semicircle around the end of the pier, linking with the Eno’Kalians. The crowd was trying to pull the orange clad soldiers from the line, grabbing at their orange tabards or shields in an attempt to pull them into the crowd. Several of the foreign soldiers had already lost their shields to the mob, he saw, and he rushed to one in particular as hands latched onto the soldier’s arm.
He arrived in time to grab hold of the soldier’s other arm; the man swung a panicked face to him, fear in his eyes as he was pulled in both directions. Lorrik was suddenly at his side, and together they managed to pull the soldier to safety behind the line of soldiers, another Talon hurrying to fill the empty position before the surging crowd could take advantage of the opening.
Rolan helped the shaken soldier to his feet, and pointed back at the pier, “Get back to your ship.”
The foreigner nodded and, muttering his thanks, hurried in the indicated direction, sparing a glance for his fellows still in the line as he did. Rolan followed his gaze, counting three more of the Eno’Kalians still in the line; two others had either been pulled out into the crowd, or had escaped like the one he and Lorrik had just pulled clear.
“This is madness,” the captain shook his head as he surveyed the crowd.
Rolan did not disagree.
“Get the rest of the Eno’Kalians clear!’ he ordered, deciding not to respond to the captain’s obvious statement, for there was no need.
“Without them, the line will break!” Lorrik protested.
“If they remain here, the crowd’s ire will only grow,” Rolan reasoned, “Once they are gone, we may be able to settle them!”
Lorrik gave him a dubious look, clearly not agreeing with the prince’s reasoning, but only nodded curtly and rushed off to follow his commands, heading towards the nearest of the foreign soldiers. Rolan watched him go, raising his arm to block another hurled tomato, batting it aside and feeling the juices soak into the sleeve of his shirt.
“What a mess,” he shook his head in dismay and disappointment and, taking a moment to glance towards the pier and ensure that his siblings remained safe and out of harms way, he hurried after Lorrik to aid in saving the Eno’Kalians.
* * *
Father, if you could only see what your foolish treaty has wrought, Steffan thought as he watched growing riot ahead of them.
Roussan, Antonia, and Elkar had made their way past him and Elenor, the pungent odour of rotting fruit strong about them. Steffan had had to fight hard to hide his smirk at seeing the seeds and red juices of an overripe tomato streaming through the salt and pepper beard of the arrogant Roussan Ungalt. He thought he had succeeded, though both Roussan and Antonia had scowled at the two DeCarren’s as they had past, Elkar in tow.
The younger of the Cedircian princes was conflicted.
On the one hand, seeing the Aldarian’s emphatic rejection of the Eno’Kalian presence filled him with a sort of pride. He agreed with them, after all: Eno’Kalia was responsible for many of the challenges and hardships these people faced everyday, and their King had welcomed them into their city with open arms. Rolan had even stopped the dockmaster from extorting more payment from them, and Steffan could see Arlen Payter and his aid amidst the crowd, throwing their rotten projectiles to wherever Rolan stood, their target clear. The sentiment of the people of Aldar was clear before him.
On the other hand, he knew that Cedirc did stand to benefit from the treatise as much as Eno’Kalia did, and in particular Aldar would prosper with the increase in trade—to say nothing of the tariffs that would be put upon goods of the island nation. As the primary port of southern Cedirc, Aldar stood to see a massive increase in traffic, both in the harbour and in the hospitality industry as more ships berthed there. Though Steffan did not like it nor the Eno’Kalians, he could see past his dislike of the foreigners enough to see the benefits, and to not openly scorn the treaty where others could hear.
Oh, he would make his sarcastic quips and take pleasure at taking jabs at the treaty for his older brother to hear, but that was more to elicit a reaction from Rolan than out of any disagreement with the treatise itself
Still, watching the Eno’Kalians pick the rotting fruit from their clothes with sour expressions did make him feel better about the whole business.
As had seeing that first tomato splatter across Rolan’s face.
Arlen Payter had thrown it, of that Steffan was sure. He had seen the dockmaster laughing at Rolan’s astonishment, and the aide patting him on the back. He loved his brother, but it did feel good to see him taken a peg or two down.
But there was such a thing as too much of a good thing, and as Steffan watched Rolan and Lorrik begin to pull the Eno’Kalian soldiers from the protective cordon, he saw more and more eyes shifting to focus on them.
He saw, too, a black cloaked figure pushing forward through the crowd, angling towards the last Eno’Kalian in the line, even as Rolan and Lorrik began making for the woman as well.
The figure’s hood was drawn fully up, obscuring their features in shadow, but Steffan did not miss the flash of metal as they pulled something from under their cloak.
A knife, he saw clearly through a break in the crowd.
None of the soldiers or guards had their weapons drawn.
Nor did Rolan or Lorrik.
All amusement at the riot gone in a flash of fear, Steffan began running forward to the crowd.
“Steffan!” Elenor cried from behind, but he ignored her.
He saw Rolan and Lorrik grab hold of the Eno’Kalian woman, beginning to draw her safely within the line of soldiers.
The cloaked figure pushed through to the front of the crowd, the black dagger flashing in the sunlight as they raised it high, emeralds sparkling in the hilt.
“Rolan!” he cried, still several paces away, unable to do more than shout a warning, “Knife!”
* * *
Hands gripping the arm of the Eno’Kalian woman, stubbornly refusing to release his hold on her in spite of the imminent danger to himself, Rolan could only watch as the silver-green dagger hovered above him, clutched tightly in a black-gloved hand.
It had only taken a moment to see what had prompted Steffan’s shout. A person, clad all in black with the hood of their cowl pulled low, obscuring their features even in the bright sunlight, stood over them, black bladed knife held high for a killing blow. The only reason the blow had not yet struck, he knew, was the person holding the knife kept getting jostled by the surrounding crowd.
Beside him, Lorrik shouted for him to get back, and even felt the captain trying to push him aside, but he could not let the orange garbed soldier get dragged out into the throng. To do so would only harm the treaty between the two nations, he feared, whereas his injury—or death—could potentially solidify it, showing as it would Cedirc’s absolute commitment to the agreement.
Of course, that reasoning was absurd.
In spite of the adrenaline coursing through him in that moment, some part of Rolan knew it to be ridiculous logic. But in that moment, as the cries from the crowd blended together into one angry shout, eyes gleaming with hatred and a murderous frenzy from all sides, he could not release his grip.
He met the eyes of the foreigner.
Fear and panic shone within the Eno’Kalian woman’s brown eyes even as the soldier gripped his arm as tightly as he did hers, stubbornly refusing to let herself be pulled into the snarling, angry mob.
He would not let go.
To do so would be to abandon her to a grisly fate.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to the soldier, though he knew that she could not hear him over the tumult. He thought she nodded, though it could have just been the crowd jostling her as the deadly tug of war continued.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, eyes flicking back to the gleaming black metal blade as it began its deadly descent.
He accepted his fate.
* * *
“Steffan!”
Elenor watched as her younger brother dashed off to where Rolan and Lorrik were helping pull the Eno’Kalians to safety, wanting to follow but knowing that one of them, at least, should remain with the delegates at this time. She did not know what had caused Steffan to rush off as he had, but she trusted it was important.
The cordon of soldiers seemed to be working as needed, the men and women in the line refusing to be pushed back, in spite of the fact that they were vastly outnumbered. The soldiers, Trekon and DeCarren both, stood arm to arm, shields raised to push those that tried ti break through back. A handful of soldiers stood within the semicircle, hurrying to reinforce any gaps or hard-pressed sections of the line. With each orange-garbed soldier that Lorrik and Rolan managed to extricate from the line, the soldiers took a step back, closing the gap before the crowd could take advantage of opening.
“Are you all to leave us to the mercy of the crowd, then?” she heard Antonia’s waspish voice ask incredulously.
The Cedircian princess spun on the spot, unable to keep herself from glaring at the Eno’Kalian delegate as she took a step towards the irate—and wholly irritating—woman, “In case you had not noticed, I am still with you, my lady. You have not been wholly abandoned.”
Antonia sniffed, clearly unimpressed by Elenor’s continued presence as she watched Steffan dash off towards Rolan. Any response from the noblewoman was cut off as she ducked down below an overripe apple that soared through the air where her head had been a moment before.
Elkar Hazrim, however, was polite enough to give her a nod of appreciation, though he watched the crowd concernedly, ducking as more projectiles came his their way from the crowd. Roussan was furiously trying to scrub the juices of the overripe tomato from his salt and pepper beard, an appraising look in his eyes as he watched Rolan try to pull the Eno’Kalian soldiers from the line of soldiers holding the crowd back. Elenor took that last as a good sign; it was certainly better than the disdain the uncle of the Emperor had shown upon their initial meeting.
“This is some welcome you prepared for us,” Antonia said loudly as she crouched behind Roussan and Elkar, using them as living shields from the continued barrage of rotting produce, finding her voice once more.
“In case you hadn’t noticed, we are just as much the targets of the people as you are,” Elenor replied, trying—and failing—to keep her annoyance out of her voice.
“So it would seem, at any rate,” came the clearly unconvinced response, suspicious still evident in the woman’s voice.
“Antonia!” Elkar admonished, grimacing as yet another tomato splattered against his robes.
“No, Elkar. They clearly do not want us here,” Antonia declared angrily, “No matter their honeyed words, the actions of the people here speak louder.”
“My brother—“
“Is in no real danger, I am sure,” the noblewoman cut her off, scoffing loudly, “It has all been planned in advance, I’m sure.”
Elenor could only state at the woman, unable to believe the amount of distrust and open suspicion evident in her words. Did the past years of painful negotiation mean nothing to her?
“They are even risking their lives to save our own!” Elkar shouted emphatically, saving her the need to respond as he gestured towards the five bedraggled Eno’Kalian soldiers that had been pulled to safety, all of whom had formed up in front of the delegates, disregarding any injuries they may have in order to protect their charges, “The Prince himself refuses to let the crowd intimidate him, even in the face of mortal danger!”
The fat man pointed towards Rolan as he spoke, drawing all their attention to him. To Elenor’s horror, she saw now what Steffan had seen—the long knife raises over her brother’s head as he and Lorrik tried to pull the last foreign soldier to safety. Steffan was getting close, but she saw he would not reach their sibling in time.
Tearing her eyes from her brother, she searched frantically around herself before spying what she needed.
“What do you think you are doing?” Antonia demanded as Elenor took two long strides towards the delegate, reaching towards her.
The princess ignored the woman’s protests as her hand closed around the soft flesh of the rotted apple that had gotten caught in the folds of the Eno’Kalian’s ruffled skirts, plucking it free of the fabric. Elenor spun on the spot and, taking a moment to better gauge the distance separating her from her twin, threw the fruit with all her strength.
The rotten projectile soared over the heads of the soldier’s Rolan had already pulled to safety as the dark blade began to come down.
* * *
The sudden trumpeting of horns startled him—and his would-be attacker. The black clad assailant hesitated, looking over their shoulder towards the source of the horns.
What they saw in that direction clearly unsettled them, for the hooded face swung towards Rolan, then back to over the crowd, and back to the prince oncer more several times. Other heads in the crowd swung in the same direction, and Rolan saw anger melting away, giving way to fear, as several people began trying to push their way through the throng, knocking others to the ground as they began hurrying back towards the caverns of Quayside.
Hearing cheers from the Trekon men and women around them as the horns sounded again with the same three, measured blasts, and thus having a good idea as to who was responsible for the momentary reprieve, Rolan felt a small amount of relief.
His own imminent danger forgotten for a moment as he saw their opportunity, he tightened his grip on the Eno’Kalian’s arm. He felt her hand tighten on his arm in response, and she gave him a nod.
“Pull!” he shouted to Lorrik, grunting as he pulled on the soldier, adding to her, “Don’t let go!”
Pulling together against the reduced resistance, Rolan and Lorrik at last managed to pull her to safety within the line of soldiers, much to the dismay of the last few Aldarians who finally released their own grips on the woman. One stubborn man refused to let go and earned himself a boot to the face from the woman for his efforts.
The man stumbled back, hands grasping at what the prince was sure had to be a broken nose, blood pouring down his face. The Aldarian fell into the black hooded figure, jostling him. Rolan himself fell backwards as all resistance disappeared, falling backwards and pulling the soldier partially atop him.
As the horns sounded a third time, the Eno’Kalian gave Rolan a grateful look as she pushed herself off him, aided by Lorrik, who grabbed her by the elbow to hoist her off his prince. She nodded her thanks, her piercing blue eyes holding his for a moment from beneath her silver helm, before the tan skinned woman hurried off past Lorrik and the prince, headed for where her countrymen waited, brushing dust from her dirty tabard as best she could. Lorrik grabbed his prince under the shoulders to help him up as well.
Certain she was safe, at least for the moment, Rolan returned his attention to his attacker as Lorrik helped him regain his feet.
The assailant had recovered from being jostled by the resident who had had his nose broken by the soldier, and the man—they were now close enough for Rolan to make out the stubble on his chin—had taken advantage of the confusion to step closer and now towered over him.
The soldiers to either side were too busy pushing back other Aldarians to help as, mouth twisting in a wordless snarl, the man raised the gleaming blade high once more.
Rolan felt Lorrik release him as the captain gave a shout, noting the renewed danger, and he knew that Lorrik would be reaching for his weapon.
But he knew, too, that it would be too late.
The black dagger plunged down.
But missed as a piece of rotting fruit struck the man wielding the dagger square in the face, spraying Rolan with sickly sweet smelling juices as the man staggered back, clearly caught off his guard.
Not bothering to question the good fortune—where had the fruit come from?—Rolan lashed out with a booted foot from where he sat on the ground, knocking the man back further.
And causing him to drop the dagger.
The green tinted black blade fell to the planks of the boardwalk between them.
The assailant’s eyes flicked between the blade and Rolan before, mouth twisted in a snarl, he spun and pushed into the milling crowd, most of whom seemed to have lost interest in trying to get to the Eno’Kalians, instead being intent on getting away as the horns sounded yet again.
Rolan started as someone in DeCarren garb stepped past him, sword drawn, staring into the crowd.
“No weapons!” he reiterated his earlier command, stopping the person—whom he now recognized as his younger brother—in his tracks.
* * *
Steffan turned a wry look on his brother at the command—had he not been facing the end of a blade a moment earlier?
Instead of arguing, the younger DeCarren prince simply gave a shake of his head as he shoved the blade of his weapon back into its sheath. Even in the face of mortal danger, his pacifist brother would not relent in his beliefs.
Foolish though it was, there was a modicum of respect to be found in such rigid adherence to one’s beliefs, Steffan supposed as he looked out over the crowd, searching for any sign of his brother’s assailant. Seeing none, he crouched and picked up the black bladed dagger with his off hand before standing once more and stepping back to his brother. Steffan stared down at his older brother for a moment, considering just how helpless Rolan had been only a few moments prior before he extended a black gloved hand out to Rolan, who clasped it, and allowed Steffan to help him to his feet.
“You are unharmed?” Steffan asked as he disengaged his hand from his brothers, eying his sibling up and down, checking for any wounds.
“Only my pride has been wounded,” Rolan said wryly, sparing his brother a glance as he, too, continued to survey the crowd for any sign of the black cloaked man.
Sadly, Steffan knew there was little chance of them finding the assailant—the mists from the impacting waters of the nearby Falls of Remembrance drifted across the Longdocks and even into the cavern of Quayside often, dousing any who stood upon them when the wind blew the right direction. Though the wind was fortunately blowing the mists into the bay at this moment, the winds here were notoriously fickle, known to change at a moments notice, and so there were many similarly garbed people to be found within the quickly dispersing crowd.
The man was simply gone.
* * *
“Let’s hope it stays just your pride,” Lorrik said sourly from Rolan’s other side, eying the crowd with distrust, though no more rotted fruit or vegetables had come their way since the blaring of the horns.
“It will,” Rolan replied with certainty, turning his attention beyond the crowd, in the direction of the falls, where the mounted soldiers continued pushing forward.
Now that there was not a dagger being held above him, Rolan looked out over the dispersing crowd, noting that there were dozens of Trekon men amongst the citizenry. He frowned, brow furrowing in confusion as he counted more and more of the telltale green and black cloaks amongst the crowd. How had they gotten so far ahead of the horsemen, the front line of whom was even now were just reaching he and his small cordon of soldiers?
As the horns blew yet again, Rolan saw several of the cloaked people in the crowd remove their hoods, revealing the gleaming green and purple tabards and silver mail of the Salt Guard beneath. Several of these gripped struggling Aldarians firmly between them as they made their way towards the approaching soldiers.
Rolan nodded his approval of the tactics, though he wished that they had revealed themselves a few minutes sooner as he began searching the line of horsemen for the man he knew had coordinated their rescue. After several moments he found him, sitting tall astride a black stallion, silver armour gleaming in the noonday sun.
High Lord Elboreth Trekon had arrived.
* * *
“Impressive aim, Princess,” Roussan rumbled from behind her as the rotten apple struck her brother’s attacker square in the face.
Elenor was relieved to see that her aim was true, and more so to see that it had the desired effect, confusing the knife-wielder long enough for Rolan to defend himself, kicking them in the gut and knocking them back several steps even as Steffan arrived. She let out the breath she had held as she had watched the fruit soar toward its intended target.
“And that must be our host,” Roussan spoke as the horns sounded again, drawing her attention to the approaching horsemen once again.
Her eyes quickly found the High Lord atop his black stallion, looking resplendent in his polished silver armour, green and black cape flowing behind him as he rode near the center of the front line of the column as they pushed into the crowd, using the horses to nudge those who did not move out of their way aside. The mounted Trekon soldiers kept moving along the front of the cordon of soldiers, some slipping off their horses and reinforcing the line as they moved along and pushed the mob back, cudgels in hand for any who refused to leave.
In the crowd beyond, several men and women removed their cloaks, revealing the purple and green uniforms of the Salt Guard beneath as the horns continued to sound. The crowd immediately around the Trekon and DeCarren soldiers in the cordon had thinned considerably, with most of those left being gripped firmly in the arms of soldiers or the Salt Guard. Some of the retreating citizens still shouted profanity and insults back at them, but no more produce or other projectiles came their way. It seemed the riot was over.
“It is a signal,” Roussan said approvingly as Guardsmen revealed themselves in the crowd as the horns continued blowing the same three blasts.
He was right, she knew; the Salt Guard, their uniforms distinctive from both the Trekon and DeCarren soldiers to denote their loyalty to both, had clearly been mixed in with the crowd the entire time. Which made her wonder why they had waited so long before acting, but she trusted that Elboreth had a good reason for it. The High Lord was one of her father’s most loyal and trusted men, after all.
Elenor glanced his way as the nobleman stepped up beside her, crossing his arms across his chest as he focused on the High Lord, watching as Elboreth directed his men and women. The black bearded man pointed and shouted commands as his eyes scanned across the Longdocks, pausing as they passed across Elenor and the Eno’Kalian contingent before continuing on. He continued his survey of the area for a long moment, ensuring events were well in hand, before giving a satisfied nod.
“Now there is a man who knows what he is about,” Roussan rumbled in his baritone, approval abundantly apparent in his tone as he watched Elboreth. His voice was tinged with the slightest amount of annoyance as he continued, “I am correct that that is the High Lord, am I not?”
Elenor started, realizing she had not answered the first time the Eno’Kalian had voiced the question upon the Trekon men’s arrival, having been distracted by watching the crowds dispersal.
“Yes, that is the High Lord Elboreth Trekon, my Lord,” Elenor quickly replied, blushing at having forgotten herself in the moment.
“Impressive,” Antonia said as she moved up on the other side of Roussan, brushing her skirts off with a sour look on her face. She glanced at Elenor as she continued in a frosty voice, “Perhaps if he had been here at the start, this riffraff would not have dared to have attacked us.”
“Now Antonia—” Elkar tried to protest, but she talked over him.
“We do not appreciate being assaulted after being invited here, Princess Elenor. This does not reflect well on you or your King,” the Eno’Kalian continued acerbically, “Perhaps this treaty is a mistake after all, Roussan.”
Roussan glanced her way, but said nothing, face impassive as he began making his way stiff legged to where Elboreth even now approached Rolan and Steffan. With a last glare at Elenor, Antonia followed, nose held high; Elkar followed behind, throwing her an apologetic look as he passed her. Elenor suppressed a sigh as she watched the three delegates move off, escorted by their six bruised and battered guards.
This had not gone well at all, so far.
* * *
“Our thanks for your timely arrival, High Lord,” Rolan said as he, Lorrik, and his brother made their way to where the High Lord sat upon his steed.
They had watched as the High Lord had orchestrated the efficient dispersal of the clamorous crowd astride his stallion. Rolan had felt no small amount of relief upon seeing the arrival of the Trekon men and women, and was not sure how much longer they would have held out without the arrival of the Trekon soldiers and the Salt Guard. The area around the High Lord was now empty, save for a handful of soldiers who remained around them, and with his line reinforced, Rolan had felt confident in leaving his position to approach Elboreth. Remarkably, it looked as though, aside from a few scrapes and bruises, there were no real injuries amongst the defenders.
Rolan suppressed a shudder as he thought of how close he had come to being the only casualty.
Now that the excitement of the riot was wearing off, he could not believe how close he had come to being stabbed by that black cloaked man. There had been nothing that he, Lorrik, nor any of their men around them could have done to stop the blow. Not even Steffan would have been in time, he knew.
If Elboreth had not arrived with his men in time…
“It was my pleasure, my Prince,” Elboreth replied in his nasally tone, cutting through the prince’s thoughts as he swung a leg over the back of his horse, sliding to the planks of the docks with a thud. He handed the reigns to a waiting guard and reached up to undo the strap of his plumed helm before removing and tucking it beneath one arm. He ran a gauntleted hand through his sweaty, stark black hair as he continued, “It looked to be a near thing. I am pleased we arrived when we did.”
“Sooner would have been better,” Roussan Ungalt replied before Rolan could, arriving beside the prince and bowing slightly to Elboreth, “But you have our gratitude as well. Perhaps this pup can learn something from you,” he gestured towards Rolan.
Rolan bristled at the slight, but pushed it down, smoothing his features quickly.
“Alas,” the High Lord said with a rueful smile, “I truthfully did not anticipate them turning on you so quickly. I admit, that did surprise me,” he arched an eyebrow at Rolan, “Whatever did you do?”
“I actually am not sure, my Lord,” Rolan turned to Roussan, wanting an answer to that question for himself, “Lord Ungalt?”
He thought he caught a brief glimpse of chagrin in the Eno’Kalian’s eyes before the regal nobleman stated haughtily, “One of them refused to get out of my way. In my country, when a man of clearly higher birth gives an order, a lowborn peasant leaps to obey them.”
Silence followed the proclamation, and Rolan shared a look of disbelief with his brother and sister as Elenor, too, arrived. This had all been caused by something so… simple?
“But we are not in Eno’Kalia, sir,” Elboreth replied when it became apparent that Rolan was not sure how to.
Rolan shot the High Lord a grateful look, and quickly came back to himself, remembering what Malute had told him about the Eno’Kalian social hierarchy and customs, and how they differed from those of Cedirc. He took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. He had been on the defensive from the moment the foreigners had arrived. It was time to change that.
“Regardless, the disrespect shown—”
“What of the disrespect you have shown us since you arrived here, sir?” Rolan interrupted him with a sharp edge to his voice as his annoyance with the pompous Roussan boiled over. He turned to face Roussan.
“You dare—“
“Since you set foot on the dock, you have been nothing but rude and demanding, Lord Ungalt, expecting us to rush to fulfill your wishes. We are not your servants, but your equals,” Rolan continued, once again cutting off the Eno’Kalian.
Roussan’s eyes widened at his words, and Rolan heard Antonia gasp from where she stood behind him. Elkar was shaking his head emphatically, silently pleading with Rolan to stop.
Elenor, standing behind the Eno’Kalians, looked stunned as Rolan continued, “Were we in your country, would you allow us to follow our own rules and customs in place of your own?”
Roussan blinked, clearly taken aback by both Rolan’s words and his tone. He did not reply for a long while as he stared at the prince, the silence stretching between them as even Antonia held her breath. Rolan had just begun to think he had erred, and thus to regret his words, when Roussan finally spoke.
“No, you would be expected to adhere to our rules, our customs,” the proud man admitted in a surprisingly conciliatory tone. Roussan sighed as he glanced around, taking in the many glares that still came his way from the crowd in the distance, “I… apologize for not realizing that sooner.”
It was Rolan’s turn to be surprised.
He had not expected such understanding and agreement from the seemingly arrogant man. He began to re-evaluate his initial assessment of Roussan Ungalt, trying to put himself in the Eno’Kalian’s boots.
Roussan was in a foreign land, a land where he had to have known that most people would have an instant dislike of him. Whether or not that resentment was justified, it would still be there. What Roussan had done, acting towards the Aldarians as if they had been his own people, had angered the crowd, yes, but to Roussan’s way of thinking he had done nothing wrong. He had simply acted as he, and his people, would have expected him to. Now that he had time to actually think about it, Rolan was not sure that he would have done any better had he been sent to Eno’Kalia for the ratification of the treaty. He sighed again, beginning to realize just how different the two cultures truly were, and thus how difficult the negotiation process had to have been.
It was really no wonder it had taken the better part of a decade to get to this point.
He realized that both Roussan and Elboreth were looking at him, and had been for some time since Roussan had spoken. Rolan cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders, fixing his stare on Roussan once more, “I too must apologize, Lord Ungalt, for my failure to anticipate such a response to your arrival here,” Rolan shifted his eyes to Elboreth as he continued, “And I am truly grateful that failure was not shared by you, High Lord.
Both men inclined their heads to the prince in acknowledgment of his words.
“Now then,” Roussan clapped his hands, breaking the silence that followed Rolan’s words, “Shall we make our way into your fair city, High Lord?” he asked with a respect that he had still not fully shown Rolan.
“I am not so sure that that is a good idea, sir,” Rolan spoke before Elboreth could, drawing Roussan’s regard back to him. He had to gain more respect in the eyes of the Eno’Kalians, particularly Roussan.
The Eno’Kalian arched an eyebrow at the clearly unexpected response, but said nothing, waiting for him to elaborate. Elboreth, likewise, waited for Rolan to go on, an appraising look in his glittering eyes.
“To be blunt, my lord, you were only off your ship for but a handful of minutes when you incited a riot,” Rolan explained. Colour rose in the proud man’s cheeks, and his nostrils flared as his dark eyes flashed, but Rolan raised a rose coloured hand to forestall the expected outburst, “I am not saying that you intended to—never that! But that does not change the reality of the situation. You—we—got pelted with fruit and, were it not for the High Lord’s timely arrival, likely worse would have happened, even had you defended yourself,” he paused, then corrected himself, “Especially if you had defended yourself.”
Still clearly annoyed, Roussan nonetheless remained silent, stroking his salt and pepper beard as he surveyed the crowded docks once more with a considering gaze.
“You are a visitor here, and one who is in Aldar and Cedirc at my father the King’s invitation, that is true. Also true is the fact that we will do whatever we can to protect you and your retinue while you are in Cedirc,” Rolan hesitated, wondering how much more he should say.
He noticed Elboreth’s slight approving nod at his words, and that small gesture by the High Lord bolstered his resolve, and the prince continued, “But, with all that being said, there are many Cedircians who do not approve of the treaty, nor of you being here to sign it. Especially here in Aldar. The people here have barely started to recover from the sanctions your people put in place on trade with us. There is still a lot of anger and resentment, much of which is unfounded, but…” he sighed, running a hand through his wavy black hair, “Eno’Kalia has regrettably become a convenient outlet for everything that goes wrong here, I am afraid.”
Roussan blinked several times, crossing his arms across his broad chest as he continued to survey the Longdocks, His mouth opened and closed several times, as if he were about to say something, but nothing ever came out. Rolan allowed himself to feel a small amount of satisfaction at seeing the man rendered speechless.
“You dare to speak to the uncle of Emperor Darren Ungalt—and his principal adviser—like that?” Antonia stomped forward into the midst of the three men, deftly sidestepping Elkar’s grasping arm as he tried stopping her. Clearly unimpressed at his words, the Eno’Kalian woman jabbed him in the chest as she repeated shrilly, “You DARE?”
Rolan gestured Lorrik off as he heard the captain shift behind him, knowing the man was bridling as the foreigner jabbed his chest a few more times.
“He is right, Antonia,” Roussan spoke from behind her as Rolan searched for a response, surprising them all with his words. He met the prince’s eyes with his own, and Rolan thought he saw a new respect in the Eno’Kalian’s dark orbs.
“What?” the Eno’Kalian woman spun to face her uncle in disbelief.
“Prince Rolan is correct, my dear niece,” the tall Eno’Kalian’s face had returned to its normally tan complexion. He smiled slightly as he continued, “I apologize for my actions, and for those of my companions, Prince Rolan.”
“And I apologize for your reception here.”
“If only you could speak for all of them,” Roussan replied, clearly in control of his own emotions once more as he turned his regard to Elboreth, who had remained silent. He extended a hand to him, “My gratitude for the aid of you and your guards, High Lord.”
“But of course, Lord Ungalt,” Elboreth took the proffered hand, clasping Roussan’s wrist, “In spite of what some of my people think, you are indeed welcome here.”
The two men regarded each other for a long moment, each taking the others measure before they finally released each other’s wrists. It seemed to Rolan as if something unspoken passed between them in that moment, something more than had been said out loud.
Roussan took a step back, regarding Rolan once more, “If we can not go through the city, Prince, what then do you suggest? I assume you do not intend to cease the agreement over this, er, misunderstanding.”
“My father would not be pleased were that to happen,” Rolan said with a slight grin, “He has worked far too hard on this for it to fail now.”
“As have we, I assure you!” Elkar exclaimed loudly, shuffling forward to join his countrymen, “We are most committed to it.”
“And we will see it through,” Rolan assured them.
“But how are we to proceed if we cannot even enter your city?” Antonia, clearly unconvinced, demanded, shifting her glare between Rolan and Elboreth in the silence that followed.
Rolan turned and considered the cliff-side city, eying and quickly dismissing both the obvious avenues through the city, such as the Winding Way, and the less obvious routes, such as the subterranean Warrens that ran from caverns of Quayside to the Terrace above it. Any route would no doubt be filled with Aldarians, and the situation that had arisen here on the docks would undoubtedly be repeated many times on their way through—especially in the narrow corridors that comprised the Warrens. Any would be an ideal place for an ambush, and many would offer no chance of aid, as they had had here. No, going through the city, even with a large escort of Trekon men and women, would not work. Not without much risk to the delegates and their guard. No, the only way was…
His eyes shifted quickly towards the north, where the sheets of water from the River Elan plummeted into the bay, and to the small openings that stood between the Longdocks and the falls, watching as a ship entered one. He tapped a finger against his chin, considering that ship as it passed from sight, considering the risks.
“You do not need to enter it.”
Steffan’s quiet response, barely audible above the renewed sounds of daily Aldarian life around them, drew everyone’s attention to him, and younger DeCarren looked uncomfortable as all eyes turned on him. Rolan saw where his brother had been looking and knew immediately that Steffan had come to the same conclusion as he.
The Eno’Kalians could not walk safely through the city.
Steffan glanced to Rolan and the High Lord, as if seeking their approval before continuing. Elboreth’s dark eyes lit with sudden understanding, and he nodded slowly, though his mouth twisted in a concerned frown. Rolan could not help but glance towards the Falls of Remembrance in anticipation of Steffan’s next words, and in spite of himself, he felt excitement welling up within him as Steffan answered Antonia’s question.
“You sail through it.”