Harold heard an affronted gasp (feminine- the duchess?) and the accompanying clatter of a fan hitting the marble floor. He felt the sharp tug from Frederick on his shoulder. But he had his eyes fixed on the king. Grand-uncle Priam was too old and wily to expose his vulnerabilities; within moments, Harold found himself met with a stony glare. But age and experience could not hide the heart’s thorniest devils. For an ephemeral instant- so short Harold mistrusted his eyes- the old man had looked away, shrinking into himself until he was more crown than man.

Harold’s heart rose at the sight, fists tightening in triumph. I can do this! He continued: “You claimed regency even as my father- your nephew- lay on his deathbed. You crowned yourself king before father’s spirit had left his body and traveled to Yamraj. Before mighty Surya-”

“What will you do before Surya, Dieter? Denounce my father for being a usurper? Vow to raise an army to unseat him?” The first to retort was surprisingly neither the king nor the duchess but rather the crippled younger man who sat on the throne next to the king.  “Cousin, do not throw your life away wallowing in visions of what could have been.” The crown prince sighed. “At least only our kinsmen are present here. If you had been this intemperate in front of the court, you would have left father with little choice but to punish you.”

Of course, the duchess couldn’t let that be. “Besalt, “she began in a sickeningly-sweet voice, “surely such insolence cannot go unchallenged?” She scowled, and it did truly unpleasant things to the rows of warts and pustules that decorated her face. “Hooliganism ought to be swiftly punished!”

Besalt shifted in his seat. “He could apologize, dear aunt. Come, Dieter, be reasonable and recant your words. The cooks have made a fine feast for the morning. Enjoy it with us!”

Harold ignored her. “Your mercy does you credit, cousin Besalt.” Too much credit. You’ll die gurgling on your own blood in less than two years’ time because you’ll refuse to learn that there is a time and place for mercy. Now, how would my main character have put this?

“But I cannot swallow these words- these words like hot coals. I will not. I am my father’s son. My father’s keeper, though he resides now with Yamraj. I cannot stand in this hall before his throne and stifle my words: desecration, treason, vice.”

“Dieter!” Frederick couldn’t take anymore. There was real horror etched on his face. Even betrayal. “Have you gone mad?” Harold could see the unspoken plea in his eyes. What are you doing Harold? Not here, please.  Not now. 

Harold laughed. Frederick, being a seven dollar per hour rent-a-slave was mad. Shuffling through life, drowning in cheap alcohol and cheaper amusements- that was modern insanity. This? Harold hadn’t felt so alive in ages.  

His laughter rang in the throne room. It set off the duchess, who had opened her mouth to speak before the last echoes of his voice had even faded. But Victor beat her to the punch.

“Desecration. Treason. Vice.” His voice was flat, disinterested. Victor then looked up from his plate. Their eyes met. Harold couldn’t help but imagine him in a lab coat and goggles. A latter-day Jane Goodall come from beyond the stars for one research mission: to observe and manipulate a hooting gaggle of primitive ape-men.  

 “Interesting words.” Victor continued. “Impotent words. Where are the swords?”

The rakish youth chimed in, face twisting in amusement. “Swords…such an interesting topic. They come in all shapes and sizes- some are made for piercing men, others for piercing women. He turned, and mock-whispered. “Dieter coz spent his night dallying with a maid and insults his Majesty come morn. Dear kinsmen, your Majesty, the issue is surely with his issue: a sword too dull, perhaps?” He shook his hands, tsk-tsking. “Bad Dieter! Bad!”

The duchess turned a bright puce. Rising from her divan, she alternated between looking at the rakish youth and Harold in growing displeasure, as if unsure who was worse. Finally, she settled on Harold and gave him a black look. Guess treason won out.

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Her husband too looked like he had had enough. He turned to the king, a frown twisting his usually smiling face. The king met his gaze.  

“Dieter, son of Leopold II.” King Priam sat on the throne, his look unreadable. Speaking in the royal we, he continued: “You have insulted us. Accused us of deeds most foul. Incited the gods against us and besmirched our honor. Though princes are exempt from the crime of lese majesty, this is a privilege and not a right. Explain yourself. Now.”

It was not a request.

Harold rose to the challenge. “All your Majesty has said is true. I have levied these charges and insulted your Majesty to your Majesty’s face. I have done so to remind your Majesty of the debt your Majesty owes me and mine. A debt which I intend to collect; I wish to ask your Majesty for a boon!”

Old Priam now seemed bemused. “You insulted us…to ask us for a boon?”

Besalt buried his face in his hands. “Dieter, I do not believe I will ever understand how your mind works.” Frederick let out a commiserating groan.

Harold replied before anyone else from the peanut gallery could chime in and derail his argument. “It is simple. Your Majesty owes us much. I only ask that your Majesty repay us with what is our due.”

“And what do you feel is your due?” Old Priam played along.

“An ambassadorship to the Asturian Empire” Harold replied. It wasn’t what the room was expecting.

“Dieter…the Asturians do not accept our envoys. They never have.” Besalt was the first one to voice his thoughts. “All because the Founder was an Asturian knight.” He looked at Harold, befuddled. “You do know that…right?”

Harold nodded.

Besalt continued. “They see us as a breakaway Asturian clan- one to be humbled. They will never accept anything from us, Dieter, least of all an envoy. Doing so would be a sign that they recognize us as a kingdom and not- as they currently maintain- an overlarge, rebellious province.”

“I know.”

“Many have tried and failed to convince them.”

“I am aware.”

Besalt shook his head. There was something strangely akin to pity in his eyes. “Perhaps your brother was right, Dieter. Have you gone mad?”

“If he has, we will shortly know.” The king glanced at Ferath. Neither spoke any words, but Ferath rose from his divan and unbuckled his word.

It emerged from the scabbard in one fluid motion, absent the scraping that might have bedeviled a lesser man. (Why wouldn’t it? Harold had made him a swordmaster- one of the best.) Ferath stalked forwards and Harold began to wonder whether he had miscalculated.

He can’t just murder me in the throne room, can he? Had Harold underestimated the debt of gratitude that Ferath felt had towards his wife and his brother-in-law? Or had he overestimated how much guilt the king felt? Why didn’t I grab a sword? His eyes looked hither and fro, but Frederick too was unarmed.

Duke Ferath had crossed the distance between them with evenly-paced strides. Harold stood there, rooted to the ground. So be it. If I miscalculated, I miscalculated. The footsteps seemed like the tolling of an ancient bell, foretelling his doom. He closed his eyes. Time to pay the butcher’s bill. He wondered how the steel would kiss him. Would it embrace his neck, sending his head spinning through the air? Would it cleave his belly, sending his intestines to fall like so many wriggling worms? Or would it thread his eye, the sharp pain fading as the sword mangled his mind? He swallowed.

“No!” Frederick stepped past him. The skinny skeleton of a man was trembling, but still, he advanced towards Ferath. Unarmed. “Y-you people killed father. I-I will, I will not watch as you kill my brother!”

Ferath snorted, flicked his blade upwards until its sharp edge lay pressed against Frederick’s throat. Frederick flinched. The motion caused the sword to cut into Frederick’s throat. Fat red droplets ran down his tunic and dripped onto the floor but the thin man still stood, defiant. Harold marveled. A tiger father will indeed never birth dog sons. Frederick had more in common with Dieter than the readers of his novel would ever have realized.

“Uncle Ferath, this is a bit much.” Besalt looked a bit green at the sight of blood.

Duke Ferath inclined his head. “Step aside, Frederick.” But Frederick stood there, his thin back seemingly as hard and sturdy as a great slab of steel.   

A strange feeling struck Harold, a deep and painful shame blooming in his chest as he watched the frail man protect him from the fallout of his own failed scheme. Man, I’m turning into a sap. But he strode towards the sword regardless, the flagellating thrum of his heartbeat like the rolling cry of a war-drum. He strode, violence in his eyes, a readiness to kill and die in his very bones.

A tired voice interrupted. “Ferath.” It was the king. “If the elder wants to protect the younger so badly, then he can share in his brother’s fate. Take them both down to the dungeons.”

Ferath frog-marched Frederick and Harold to the dungeons, leaving in their wake a trail of bright red blood.