Chapter 582: Familiar Arguments
Familiar Arguments
Although spending the last days in the city, Martel had noticed the flurry of activities across the home of House Fontaine. Preparations for the summer solstice took time, and Martel ended up simply leaving during the morning as well, though he went nowhere in particular; he just wanted to avoid being in the way. In the afternoon, he returned to use the baths and otherwise prepare himself for the feast.
He looked through his small collection of expensive clothing, all of them gifts from Maximilian or Eleanor. Considering location, he chose a set of clothes of the latter variety; he remembered going to the tailor with her, and how she had chosen the green tree on his doublet as an emblem for him.
Once attired, he walked over to the small vanity mirror standing on the dresser in the room. Martel had not used it before, as he usually did not see the point in staring at his own reflection; he looked the way he looked. But he was a little curious how the clothes suited him; they hung more loosely around his body then he remembered.
Looking at his own visage, he found it a little surprising. His eyes looked sunken, as if he had not slept in a long while. His cheeks were almost hollow. One of the servants had shaved his face, so at least he looked groomed in that regard, but he began to understand why some at the Lyceum had not recognised him at first glance.
A knock on the door. "Enter." He looked over to see Eleanor. She wore a dress of green and red; the first time he had seen her wearing something other than a tunic or armour in more than a year.
She held up a jar in her hand. "Sit down." She nodded at the chair in the room. While he did as ordered, she moved to stand behind him and pour some of the contents from the jar into his hair. He remembered the first time she had done this, likewise just before a celebration. Her hands had swiftly and deftly distributed the oil, something he had never experienced before.
Now she did this again, but her movements seemed far slower, taking her time to work in the balm. He did have longer hair this time around. He closed his eyes, and the world disappeared except for her touch, and the ticking sound of his Khivan clock, reminding him that inevitably, the moment would end.
Which it did. "There we are." She wiped her hands on a piece of cloth and placed it on the dresser next to the jar. "Come along. The guests have already begun to arrive."
Martel got up and followed her out of the room and down the corridor. As they approached the great staircase leading from the upper floor to the entrance hall, Eleanor took him by the arm. Side by side, the two companions descended to join the celebration.
***
Once they had joined the other guests in the great hall, they separated so Eleanor could mingle with the guests, representing her family. Martel retreated to the side, not particularly interested in conversation. Ideally, he would spend a few dull hours before taking his leave, and that would be the extent of his evening.
He entertained himself a while by trying to recognise or guess the insignias of the many noble houses represented in the hall. Some he knew from his time at the Lyceum; he noticed the symbol of a hawk belonging to the family of Alain, whom he had been on friendly footing with. The mageknight himself did not appear to be present though; he was probably in the camp of a legion somewhere.
A loud noise behind Martel made him flinch, and he turned on his heel with flames igniting around his hands. A servant, looking terrified, picked up the tray he had dropped and practically ran off. Around the mage, the nearest guests regarded him with bemused or overbearing looks; a few did not hide their contemptuous smiles. Letting his magic disappear, Martel tried not to notice them.
"Martel, is everything alright?" Eleanor appeared, almost as out of nowhere.
Apparently, more people had noticed him than just those nearby. "I'm fine. I was just surprised." Seeing her concerned look, he continued, "I know this seems strange, but I could have sworn it sounded like" Martel could not make himself say that he thought he had heard a Khivan musket being fired. A tray clanking on the floor sounded nothing like it, yet he had felt convinced.
She lowered her voice. "I know what you mean. It bothered me as well."
"You didn't draw weapons, though."
She looked down at her dress. "I might have if I had one available."
Martel laughed a little, feeling better thanks to her presence, which made him forget his embarrassment.
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"A scarecrow being scared. How fitting." The sneering voice naturally belonged to none other than the young Cheval, son of the duke.
His emotions already out of balance, Martel could feel his anger immediately rising. But it remained within his control; he could ignore the nobleman. He could turn and walk away.
"I would ask you to be cordial towards an honoured guest and the strongest battlemage in all the legions," Eleanor spoke sharply with a look no gentler than her tone.
"I forgot you chose to be the peasant's protector! Well, we have all seen how he deals with an unarmed servant. No wonder they flee in terror at the sight of him." A couple of sycophants flanking the young nobleman laughed.
Martel could still walk away. But this trip was a return to memories, and many of them included him humiliating Cheval. Why break with tradition? "Bold words for a mageknight who never draws his weapon." Both the young nobleman and his henchmen wore the uniform of the Praetorian Guard. "I guess making you guard empty hallways, they finally found a use for you."
"We protect the emperor," Cheval spoke with overbearing disdain. He looked at Eleanor. "While you protect a Tyrian half-blood."
Martel did not care about the insult aimed at him, but he would not let the implication towards Eleanor pass by in silence. "She has faced and killed more enemies than you can count, though admittedly, not a difficult task. You once lost a duel to a novice with less than a month's training."
"My son, I see you have found your friends from school. The daughter of our host, and the illustrious battlemage he brags about." Affable yet cold, the duke of Cheval managed to make his words sound like an insult even if none could be found.
It took Martel a moment to understand that the duke meant Legate Fontaine; strange to think that the patrician would tell others of Martel, until he realised the legate did so for Eleanor's benefit, improving her reputation indirectly.
Regardless, the moment had changed. Before, it had been a band of youths bickering. But the duke was the most powerful man in the room; wherever he went, attention followed him. And unlike his son, he was dangerous. Now was the last chance to walk away.
But it was also Martel's only opportunity to repay the duke a small fraction of all the pain he had caused. It seemed like everyone expected a confrontation, and Martel saw no reason to disappoint. Not when he knew beyond doubt that his powers far outstripped those of any praetorian knight.
We were all surprised," the duke continued, "when Legate Fontaine's daughter chose such a remote and insignificant posting. After all, we have all heard him speak so highly of her skills." The nobleman looked directly at Eleanor even while he spoke as if she were not present.
This was what tonight was about, Martel understood. The legate was trying to salvage Eleanor's reputation, but because Eleanor was tied to him, the duke's enemy, Cheval was happy to undermine all that work. The moment to walk away had passed.
"I could have chosen a career in the Praetorian Guard, of course, my lord duke," Eleanor replied, "but since the Empire is embroiled in a decade-long war, I thought I would make an actual contribution towards seeing its end."
"Have you been to war?" Martel asked, leaving out any titles despite this being the first time he addressed the duke. Instead, he kept his eyes on the man. From what he knew of court intrigue, Cheval led the faction in favour of expansion and the current unpopular war, leaving him vulnerable. "After all, you sit on the High Council. You must be aware of the endless resources being spent on this conflict. The countless number of Asterians being killed or returning to Morcaster as mutilated shadows of their former selves. What do you sacrifice while the men and women of the Empire bleed, day after day!" It was not a question Martel wanted answered; he knew there was none. Nothing to justify all the suffering and death he had witnessed.
The duke laughed, triggering the same response from those around, albeit theirs was of the nervous kind. "I thought this was a firemage, not a firebrand! I shall inform the High Council that a blue-eyed resident of Nordmark is eager to advise us on our decisions." Laughter increased, no longer sounding anxious; the duke's smooth remarks, probably aided by his references to Martel's origins, had turned the mood in his favour.
"This battlemage has killed more enemies in your war than every other person in this room put together," Eleanor declared, and Martel could tell that despite her composed demeanour, she was likewise angry. "Including your son and every other praetorian."
"You should be careful, Lady Eleanor. It sounds as if you are suggesting that your companion could best not only my son, but both of his companions."
The bait was so obvious that any animal would be ashamed to fall for it. Martel had no such qualms, and he gladly jumped with both legs into the trap. While he did not know the names of the mageknights flanking Cheval, they both wore the surcoat of the Praetorian Guard, meaning they like him would have little to no combat experience. "She may be suggesting it. I am happy to declare it." Martel gazed straight at the duke.
"That sounds like a challenge!" exclaimed the host of the evening. Martel got the sense he had been hovering in the background, waiting for this moment to happen and stepped in. "It looks as if our entertainment for the night has been secured. Sir Martel, are you willing to provide us with a spectacle against these three fine knights of the Praetorian Guard?"
"Absolutely."
"I accept," sneered the younger Cheval.
"Excellent!" The legate looked around at his guests. "My daughter's companion, the brave battlemage of the Tenth Legion will put himself against three praetorian mageknights! May I suggest you all stand to the side? We best give them all the room possible."
Everyone began to disperse, leaving the centre of the hall empty. Before he walked away, the duke patted his son on the shoulder and leaned in to whisper, "Make it look accidental."
For her part, Eleanor squeezed Martel's arm. "Try not to maim them." She gave a shrug. "If you can avoid it."
Martel smiled at her with the expression of a predator before he walked out to stand in the middle of the room, facing three mageknights of the emperor's personal guard.
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