Lucas led Penbrooke through the lively crowd outside the amphitheatre towards a desk some ways off from the entrance. Manned by an administrator – a clerical-looking young woman – who was additionally supported by a half dozen guards at rest, it was where competitors signed up for the tournament.
Since there was no queue, Penbrooke was able to walk straight up to it; Lucas, meantime, broke away and made for his cluster of colleagues.
“Welcome, visitor,” the administrator greeted Penbrooke, looking up from the book she was reading – which was titled Knightingale’s Romp Through the Erudian Forest (and saving a princess on the way for some steamy action), fourth in the series – the sun’s glare shining off her thick, round glasses.
Her gaze rested on his face for a second longer than polite, no doubt struck by the childish eyemask he really should have outgrown by this age. “Are you interested in joining the tournament?”
Penbrooke nodded. “Indeed. I’ll need to win it to complete my quest and start my journey down the hero’s path, before I get to the real fun of killing dragons and saving princesses. You know, I can already see the masses making pilgrimages here in the future, to witness the place where my chronicles first began.”
He smirked, head still bobbing up and down as though he were imparting wisdom. “In fact, when I win, I recommend you build a grand-looking statue of me here, something for the visitors to be inspired by. Maybe a pose like this, you know, something that stirs the spirits.”
“That’s nice,” she said, clearly having tuned out everything he’d said after the first word; so as to not upset him, she showed him the diplomatic smile elderly people used for youngsters who trumpeted on about changing the world with their revolutionary social ideas that no one in history had totally ever thought of or tried already.
Although she looks the type to be susceptible to such fantastical delusions, it seems she can differentiate quite well between her stories and reality. This oddball knight on the other hand…
Her smile worked like a charm and had Penbrooke chuckling away in a frivolous, self-satisfied manner. “Yes, that’s right – it is a nice pose, isn’t it? Though personally, I prefer this one. Look, look. What do you think—”
She was forced to interrupt him, lest she wish to sit through all his prepared poses that, strangely enough, all required him to wear the expressions of someone suffering from varying degrees of constipation; grabbing a piece of paper from her desk and tapping it with a pencil, she said, “I can substitute you in for the guard who would have otherwise filled in for the last spot. What’s your name and occupation, visitor?”
“Ser Penbrooke of Twirdly Castle.”
The administrator began to write this down but stopped halfway. She glanced askance at him. “Did you say you were a knight?”
“That’s correct.”
“Of Twirdly Castle?”
“That’s correct.”
…
“Sorry, ser knight. I don’t think I’ve heard of Twirdly Castle before. Could you tell me where it’s located?”
Penbrooke tensed and stared at the administrator blankly.
“Or which high lady or lord knighted you? That would help me in placing you.” Although her speech remained polite, her tone had thickened with doubt.
“Why, who else but the fair Lady Viviane, of course.”
The administrator was silent for several beats, visibly sizing him up. “Ser knight, I’m sorry to say but I have neither heard of your lady, nor of your castle. And I hope you don’t take offence, but your current appearance doesn’t exactly look knightly either.” What she was implying at was clear.
Woah, hold up, girl. Except for the mask, the rest is all me, you know, so no need to be so rude about it. It’s not my fault your Knightingale’s put such a high bar on what you think a knight should look like; if anything, I bet he dresses like this too in his everyday life.
Overhearing her tone, the idle security bristled and threw their gazes onto Penbrooke to let him know he was being watched, probably hoping this would be enough for him to realise the gig was up and not take them for fools any longer.
Consequently, they were ill-prepared and had to scurry to surround him when he slammed his palm against the table, bringing fright to the administrator.
“How dare you accuse me of impersonating a knight?!” His voice was raised, yet restrained as though he were barely controlling his temper at her accusation; what Cal sensed from him internally, however, was the discomfited queasiness of someone caught red-handed, not the rush and surety of an outraged person.
Nevertheless, Penbrooke continued his act by turning this way and that, addressing the guards ahead of him – who were reflexively fingering the batons hanging from their waists – in addition to the administrator: “I am a knight-errant who crossed rivers and borders to reach these foreign lands in the search of a right, honourable adventure, and not to have my station doubted.”
The obvious flaw in his supposed background must have occurred to him then, as he hastily added on: “Especially after having spent so much time and effort to learn your language to this degree, to think you would still make an outsider out of me… The shock, horror!”
He wiped his eyes to show the emotional distress they were putting him under with their disgusting bigotry; but he must have realised that no one was buying his act as a discriminated-against-foreigner – naturally a difficult image to sell when you spoke as fluently as the locals and could easily pass for the second cousin of anyone here – for he swiftly changed tack.
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No longer was he a poor victim of racism, but now a proud purveyor of it: “You filthy Fragrant fools better watch yourselves, or else I’m about to go Nagasaki on you misbegotten arseh—”
Cal’s heart dropped, his life flashing before his eyes. It’s over…
To the Penbrooke’s benefit, he stopped himself before completing the sentence once he noticed the string of gasps and scandalised faces around him. He even seemed ashamed of what he’d just said, evidently having twisted the dial on the ol’ racist-o-meter a few notches too far.
He awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “Sorry, that was low of me. What I meant to say was, uh, if you dare challenge my rank one time, being the noble knight that I am, I will be forced to defend my honour.”
The damage was already done, however.
The onlookers – who’d stopped amidst their entry to the amphitheatre to watch the pre-game event – expected it to climax any moment now: for the forbidding guards to pile onto Penbrooke and go to town with their batons.
Thus, they were stunned when the guards did not, in fact, jump the knight like common thugs, and instead cautiously assessed the threat ahead of them like security professionals.
Penbrooke – now back in character again after his careless misstep – glared at them in return, his head tilted up and chin wagging as though he really were daring them to bring it on.
Cal could guess at the ongoing dilemma in the guards’ minds: although the man facing them indeed looked common in appearance and attire, he had thoroughly displayed the arrogance and energy of young nobility pressed up against a corner. And that was a difficult thing to fake.
Even if Cal wanted to, he would have struggled to channel the genuine disgust and outrage aristocrats felt when being held to the same standards and expectations as ordinary lay people (aka the homo plebius, common creatures that subsisted on diets of dirt, clay, and swigs of pondwater, occasionally even supplemented by the odd mud pie for dessert).
The guards likely thought him either a genuine knight down on his luck or deluded otherwise, hence their present hesitation on what to do.
But with each passing beat the pressure on them to act rose, proportional to the growing clamour from the audience which was starting to get bored from the lack of action; they had come out today to cheer on a good bit of bloodsport, not to ruin their afternoons by staring at a ring of constipated statues.
Finally, Lucas – perhaps due to his small amount of familiarity with Penbrooke having led the knight here – raised his hands placatingly to break the tension. “Ser Penbrooke, please don’t take offence at our administrator’s words. She’s only being cautious because it’s a criminal act in Felsia to pretend to be someone you’re not, especially if one is impersonating gentry.” It was a sneaky statement that threatened as much as it mollified.
Before Penbrooke could respond to it, however, he was interjected by a resonant voice from outside the circle. “Hey, what’s all this commotion about?”
A small procession of people intruded on the standoff, led by the owner of the voice who was a plump, jovial man with glossy hair and a manicured beard, dressed in fine fabrics. Accompanied by two clerks, he walked up to Penbrooke and offered a firm handshake, giving scent of his strong floral perfume.
“Good to see you, dear visitor. I hope you’ve been having an excellent time in our village and that our friendly staff have been helping you out with any issues you’ve encountered.”
The man said this as a statement, but through a neat trick of alchemy had it transmuted into a question when he turned and faced the others with a slightly tilted eyebrow. Those caught under his gaze were overcome by a strange and sudden urge to survey the ground, their hands fidgeting in an attempt to pass the hot potato on to the next person along.
He paused to make eye contact with their elusive gazes, before continuing: “What’s causing the hold up here? There’s less than an hour to go, and I want to see us all doing our part in preventing any tardiness to the schedule. These visitors have all kindly gathered for Fragrant Grove’s first-ever tournament, so let’s show them how we’ve changed as a village and give them a real something to see, eh?”
Neither his tone nor expression had been unfriendly during his pep talk, yet each addressee looked the mirror image of a kid who’d been caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“Yes, Mayor Ovaro,” Lucas answered, dipping his head. “I apologise if we distracted you with any commotion caused. Our administrator had a few questions for Ser Penbrooke here as part of the process for him to sign up as a competitor, that was all.”
The mayor raised an eyebrow towards the administrator, who flinched in response. “I-it’s nothing, mayor. I did not know where this ser knight was from, and so I was worried…” She drawled off, conscious of the multitude of eyes trained on her.
Choosing not to press the matter, the mayor looped back to Penbrooke and was caught unawares when the knight took the initiative in casting a friendly hand on the mayor’s shoulder, simultaneously hooking a thumb towards his own chest so as to introduce himself. “I’m Ser Penbrooke of Twirdly Castle, Mr Mayor. Pleasure to meet you.”
The mayor grinned at the brazenness, and dismissed the administrator’s concerns with a wave. “I understand your misgivings, but no need to worry; I can immediately tell that this gentleman truly is a knight. As for where he’s from, I admit I too have never heard of Twirdly Castle, but I’m sure it’s an upstanding place in the Darklands south of here. Is my conjecture correct, ser knight?”
Wait, does he mean to say…
Penbrooke nodded. “I heard of your tournament from afar and journeyed hard to make it here in time. If I can’t take part, I’ll have failed my quest and myself.” Wistfully, he shook his head. “I wouldn’t be able to return home either, because I bragged to everyone before I left that I’d return a champion or not at all.”
The mayor chuckled and patted him on the upper arm. “That’s exactly the attitude a champion should have. Although I’m not supposed to lean towards any one competitor, I pray that the winds favour you today, Ser Penbrooke.”
He snapped his finger at the administrator. “Go ahead and sign this valiant knight up to the tournament; I give my backing to his identity. And in the meantime…”
He clicked at the guards. “Lucas, go and help him get ready for the first round. With the competitors he’s up against, he’ll have to be switched on from the get-go if he’s to become a champion by tonight.”
----------------------------------------
There was a knock on the door, answered by a deep, growling voice: “Come in.”
The door opened to a dark room heavily clouded by smoke. Inside, the owner of the deep voice sat behind a massive desk, appearing as an indistinct silhouette, just ahead of which hovered a firefly glowing incandescent red.
“What is it, minion?” rumbled the voice.
The minion struggled for breath, spluttering coughs into its palm. “Boss, the melee tournament in Fragrant Grove is about to kick off. Our watchers have confirmed that the candidate we selected is also the bookie’s current favourite to win.”
The boss made a noise which suggested they’d smirked at the news, although the minion couldn’t see from where it stood. “Show me the profile sheet you’ve prepared for him.”
Taking a deep breath, the minion braved the smoke-infested room, swishing its hand in front to waft away some of the smog. Only on reaching the desk did it realise that the firefly it’d spotted from the entrance had actually been a lit cigar, under which a mound of ash had built up like a small termite nest and was now spilling off the ashtray.
The minion made sure to pointedly cough as it handed over the report to its boss.
The boss either didn’t understand, or wilfully ignored the minion’s concerns over their health.
Bringing the sheet up to their eye, the boss used the cigar’s luminescent glare to make the text legible, and shortly after the boss released a slow, maniacal laugh befitting a major villain. “The Black Knight, eh? I’ve got high expectations for this one.”