Chapter 41 – The Court of Love

The body was found floating in the moat around dawn.

Shaelith stood with the others at the edge of a large crowd of people that had already gathered despite the early hour, watching as two guards pulled the soaked body out of the moat. Meanwhile a third guard struggled to push the onlookers back, with limited success.

The dead man was a stocky, middle-aged man with calloused hands and a leather apron that the water had stained almost black.

“Oh, Forge Father, have mercy! That’s Master Aufrey,” a woman behind them said quietly. “The fletcher.”

That can’t possibly be a coincidence.

It wasn’t. Probably.

It didn’t take long before they’d pieced together more or less the whole story from the crowd’s chatter. Master Aufrey had been seen at the tavern just last night, where he was said to have been in high spirits and unusually generous. People attributed this to the fact that he’d made good money from the Hunt, because after all, he’d supplied the arrows for it. An accident, had to be. That was the unanimous verdict of the guards and the crowd. He’d probably had one too many and accidentally fallen into the moat while relieving himself. That sort of thing happened often.

I’m not so sure about that.

A shiver ran down her spine, and Benderast, too, was very quiet as he looked at the bloated corpse. Shaelith could imagine what was going through his mind. For both of them, drowned bodies were not a sight like any other.

The days before had been almost pleasant.

Benderast had been drilled in dwarven theology by Grimbart from morning till night and could now recite the eight temperings of the soul in his sleep. With a little luck, even in the correct order.

Shaelith, for her part, had invested an entire afternoon and an almost indecent amount of flattery to coax the rough details of the Trial of Courtesy out of Tancred. The trial would take place in the midst of a grand revel, where the assembled nobility of the Triarchy would dine, drink, dance, and celebrate, and right in the middle of it all, the two contenders would be tested on etiquette, poetry, and dance.

A bit like a prom with judges.

And since only Gwilet and Benderast would be competing in the Trial of Courtesy, they could assume that any further attempt at sabotage by Gwilet would likely target Benderast directly this time. So they had decided not to let him out of their sight.

But despite all their vigilance, on the evening before the revel they realized that their tent must have been searched.

Grimbart, who kept all his belongings in meticulous order, was the first to notice. In fact, almost nothing was missing. Only the sabotaged arrow from the Hunt, which Grimbart had kept, was gone. Thaelon found some soft-soled footprints in the ground near the tent entrance and followed them, but their trail disappeared on the cobblestones of Bomfrey’s main street.

And now this morning, on the day of the revel, the man who had made the arrows for the Hunt was fished out of the moat, dead.

Like I said, this can’t possibly be a coincidence.

Grimbart clenched the fingers of his Chronosteel hand into a fist. “This stinks rotten.”

“We have to take this to Tancred,” said Shaelith.

~

They found the herald, exhausted, in his study in the castle.

“I know why you’re here,” he said before Shaelith could open her mouth. “The dead fletcher. I can imagine that fits in well with your theory.”

“But that’s not all,” Grimbart growled. “The day before someone tampered with our tents and stole the arrow.”

“Which arrow?” Tancred rubbed his eyes. “Do you mean the arrow that my colleagues and I examined and found nothing unusual about? Master Grimbart, please understand, if I report to the bailiff that an arrow was stolen from you, one that, according to an official finding, had absolutely nothing unusual about it, then we’ll make fools of ourselves… I mean, it’ll make a really bad impression. As if you were trying to spread suspicion.”

“And the dead fletcher? Nothing suspicious about that either?” Shaelith asked calmly.

Tancred wrung his hands. “The bailiff has already taken up the case. Two witnesses have testified that they saw Master Aufrey leave the tavern drunk. It’s not the first time someone has drowned in the moat while drunk.”

“You don’t really believe that yourself,” said Shaelith, raising her eyebrows.

“What I believe, Your Excellency, is not a matter of legal relevance.” He didn’t even sound angry, just tired. “I… after your, uhm, insinuations about the arrow, I spoke with Master Aufrey. He’s made the arrows for the Hunt at three tournaments already. Nothing he said would have given me even the slightest reason to suspect foul play, nevermind prove it. I’m sorry, really, I am. Bring me proof, and I can set the rules in motion. But as it stands, there’s nothing I can do.”

~

So many candles had been lit in the banqueting hall of Bomfrey Castle for the revel that Shaelith was seriously worried about all the tapestries hanging on the walls.

I sincerely hope they aren’t flammable.

The evening began with the reception, where both Prince Gwilet and Benderast greeted the entire long procession of nobles under the watchful eyes of the heralds and this was already their first task, in a sense.

Gwilet was in his element and visibly felt right at home, while Benderast seemed stiff and nervous. He was a fish out of water, but at least he was making a sincere effort.

“The Duke of Brobont,” announced Tancred.

“Your Highness,” said Benderast. Shaelith cleared her throat as discreetly as possible. “Your Most Gracious,” he hastily corrected himself. “Grace. Your Grace!”

The duke feigned magnanimous amusement.

A short while later, the elderly Countess of Leglise made a half-curtsy, and Benderast, in genuine panic, flung out his arms as if to catch her before realizing she hadn’t stumbled but just curtsied. To cover up his jerky movement, he curtsied back.

Even Shaelith had to bite her cheek to keep from bursting out laughing.

Meanwhile, Shaelith’s dress was quite a job as usual. She had chosen a deep purple one made of spider silk for the evening, with an open back and shoulders. One count seemed unable to take his eyes off her, but would always study the tapestries very intently as soon as his wife looked in his direction.

“It’s over!” groaned Benderast when everyone had finally been greeted and the rich banquet was served. There was pheasant, pig’s tongues, quail eggs, and pies, accompanied by a heavy red wine. Mirrsoss, who was sitting next to Shaelith, feasted mainly on candied fruits, as did Thaelon, since there were virtually no meatless dishes available. Grimbart, on the other hand, tucked in heartily.

After a while the chairman of the College of Heralds rose and announced that the poetry contest would now begin, asking Gwilet to step forward first.

The prince had one of his lackeys hand him a lute and bowed deeply before the assembled nobility. “Your Majesties, Your Most Eminent Highness! Sirs and Ladies, esteemed guests. I humbly dedicate this ballad, written by my own hand, to my name, Grevue.”

Then he began his recitation. Shaelith had to admit that he certainly possessed some artistic skill. He recited a long heroic epic about the glorious deeds of the Grevue dynasty from its beginnings in the mists of a legendary past, through heroic feats, battles, sieges, victories, and defeats. In competent verse he described the founding of the Triarchy all the way to the Third Goblin War and the battle against the Crimson Warlock. And as he recited, he accompanied himself flawlessly on the lute. It was clear that he was no beginner in the art of poetry.

It was also clear that the ballad was incredibly long and boring.

Shaelith counted a total of thirty-nine stanzas. Mirrsoss’s antennae drooped lower and lower, and her eyes began to close until Thaelon nudged her discreetly.

When Gwilet finished, polite applause rang out in the hall, and the heralds frantically scribbled notes.

Then it was Benderast’s turn, and Shaelith briefly squeezed his arm as he stood up. He tried to smile at her, looking a little pained.

He cleared his throat, bowed a bit awkwardly to the assembled crowd, and began to recite an old love poem that he had selected and memorized from Obelaine’s slim, leather-bound volume.

At the first line, Obelaine pressed her hand to her mouth, and the princess’s stifled sob sent a murmur through the ladies of the court. Soon after many a handkerchief was pulled out to dab at noblewomen’s eyes.

Benderast faltered briefly in the fourth stanza before he could recall the next line, but it sounded as though he were struggling to find the words, overcome by emotion, causing a few more ladies to sigh, and tears glistened in Obelaine’s eyes.

Prince Frambert, on the other hand, stared coldly and unflinchingly at Benderast.

Fortunately, Benderast didn’t notice, because he was focused on not messing up the emotional climax at the end of the poem.

“It lies not in our power to love or hate, / For will in us is overruled by fate. / When two are stripped, long ere the course begin, / We wish that one should lose, the other win. / And one especially do we affect, / Of two gold ingots, like in each respect. / The reason no man knows, let it suffice / What we behold is censured by our eyes. / Where both deliberate, the love is slight, / Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?”

Afterward, there was silence for several breaths before applause rang out, hesitantly first, then bolder. Obelaine openly wiped her eyes, overcome with emotion, without making even the slightest attempt to hide it. Even King Gerarde surreptitiously dabbed at his eyes, and Grand Master Rambaud nodded slowly and thoughtfully.

Honor, whose pole had been set up at the head of the hall, cheered loudly, drowning out the applause. “THAT’S WHAT I CALL POETRY!”

Shaelith looked over at Benderast, who bowed once more, looking a little embarrassed, and gave him an encouraging nod.

Maybe he does have a small chance after all?

The heralds conferred briefly in whispers over their tablets, but Shaelith feared that Gwilet would win the poetry contest anyway, simply because his performance had been the greater feat of artistry and, on top of that, had been composed by himself and accompanied by a lute.

The Head Herald took the floor once more. “Now we come to the evaluation of the two competitors’ dancing skills, for which each will be paired with an experienced dance partner.” He nodded toward two resolute-looking elderly ladies. “The judging will then take place as part of the general dance. Make way for the dance and let the music play!”

Promptly, the servants pushed the tables back and cleared the center of the hall, while a group of musicians tuned their instruments and the first couples took to the dance floor even before the two contestants. A herald escorted Benderast to his assigned partner, a dignified but stern-looking elderly baroness.

That’s quite a battle axe.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, Shaelith saw a servant in the colors of House Grevue, standing over there in the shadow of an alcove. He tipped a fine powder from a small parchment packet into a goblet filled with wine, placed the goblet on a tray, and headed straight for Benderast.

Immediately, she set off as quickly as decorum and her extravagant dress would allow, making her way through the crowd.

“Benderast!” she hissed in a low voice but was drowned out by the swelling music. She feared that if she called out, she might startle the servant. But she absolutely had to get her hands on that wine goblet. They needed proof for Tancred just as urgently as she needed to make sure that Benderast did not drink from it under any circumstances.

She was barely a few steps away-

-when Sir Gaudbert just stepped into her path with a broad smile and bowed with exquisite elegance. “Lady Shaelith! I believe you owe me another dance. After all, I taught you the steps, didn’t I?”

Fuck! Timing!

Right behind Gaudbert, the servant walked past with his tray and continued unwaveringly toward Benderast.