The Invisible Chains - Part 3: Bonds of Blood (4 page)

“Nothing, Timishi,” he replied. He smiled. “You did nothing wrong. Those are just some uneducated peasants who shouldn't be let loose in polite company.”

He lay down his fork, and still smiling at the Mukthar prince, he took a chicken breast with both hands and put his teeth into it.

Timishi grinned.

“See, I told you those things are nothing but a bother when you really want to enjoy your food,” he said.

By then the liberally flowing wine had made the banquet a whole lot less formal than when it started out.

People were rearranging the seating arrangements to be able to sit with friends they preferred, and they had started walking around to greet acquaintances and have a word with them. Nobody paid any attention when Hemarchidas stood up and walked over to Anaxantis.

“What are you doing?” he whispered in his ear. “Going Mukthar on us?”

Anaxantis turned left, his face away from Timishi.

“It's Iramid and his officers,” he whispered back. “They're mocking Timishi and his friends because they don't know how to use a fork.”

Hemarchidas nodded and went back to his place. He as well took a piece of meat with both his hands from his plate. He nudged Lethoras and explained what was happening.

“Pass the message,” he concluded.

Within five minutes everybody at the table of the princes was eating with their hands.

The mayor of Lorseth Market, a farmer and a clever man, had seen what was happening. He had felt honored beyond words when he had received the invitation to attend the banquet. Never before a lord governor, let alone one of royal extraction, had paid the least attention to the mayor and councilors of the little town. A born politician, as well as a breeder of prize winning pigs, his ever inquisitive eyes had immediately seen what was happening at the officer's table and how the prince had reacted. When he saw the Ximerionians at the head table follow the example of the Mukthars, he knew what to do. A few succinct words in the ears of his colleagues was enough. Most of them preferred eating without an awkward implement like a fork anyway, just like they did at home.

He was rewarded with a grateful smile when the lord governor saw what they were doing.

It took another half hour, but eventually everybody was eating with their hands. The last to give in were the officers at Iramid's table. The general himself finally saw there was nothing for it but to comply. Which he did with ill grace, silently cursing, and trying not to get too much fat on his carefully groomed goatee.

Anaxantis went over to the room where the food was prepared for serving.

“Obyann,” he said, “the pages are performing brilliantly. Tell them I'm very pleased, will you?”

Exactly at that moment one of the aforementioned squires fell down to the ground on his belly, landing in a plate of greasy ribs he had been carrying.

“Damn you, Yarda, can't you even carry a plate in those fat butter fingers of yours? And did you have to show off your clumsiness just when his highness is here?”

Fraydir of Yarda stared back at him from the floor with open mouth.

“And close that trap of yours, in heaven's name. As if this old Hall isn't drafty enough,” Obyann added.

“The castle hasn't burned down, Obyann.” Anaxantis laughed. He turned to the unhappy page. “Accidents will turned tifyhappen, Fraydir, don't worry. Get yourself cleaned up in the kitchen and ask Arranulf to send some pages over to help clean up the mess.”

Obyann snorted.

“Thank the prince, you moron,” he barked at Fraydir who was trying to get up.

“Oh, never mind,” Anaxantis said. “What I came to tell you: I've asked the cook to prepare enough for you guys too. Most of the people have had their fill I see, so we will only need drinks from now on — barring the occasional glutton — before the sweets are served. You can divide your guys up in groups of ten and take turns to go to the kitchen and eat yourselves. Renda will be waiting for you.”

“Most generous of you, your highness,” Obyann grumbled.

“Well, enjoy your meal.”

Rodomesh had taken advantage of Anaxantis's absence to fill up his cup once more with undiluted wine.

“It's stacking the deck a bit, but prince Wuss would have lost the mravinshinohr anyway,” he mused silently.

“So, actually, it makes no difference. It'll only make him feel good about himself and confident enough to accept the challenge. If my nagàrouwin manages to win three times, our future will look a whole lot better.

Hm, maybe I should challenge the big, ugly Ximerionian. He's strong, but I bet I'm a lot faster. I wonder what he looks like...”

As time was passing the conversation became louder, and the little band that played music couldn't almost make itself heard above the noise. Anaxantis looked around. The banquet was a great success, he decided, and the Hall looked, although a bit hazy, warm and inviting. Everybody seemed to get along with everybody else. Yes, he felt really good about himself, life and the universe in general. He nipped again from his cup, shrugged and drank deep. It was not as if there was a successful banquet every week, after all. He signaled Lorcko.

“I think I'm going to try the undiluted wine for a change, Lorcko. Just the one cup, please.”

“Of course, my lord,” Lorcko answered, filling him up out of the appropriate jug.

Around midnight most of the guest began to leave. First to go were Iramid and his officers, but soon after the others started to depart in droves as well.

Hemarchidas had looked at Anaxantis with some suspicion. He had seen him empty his wine in one, long draught. The Cheridonian knew that his friend wasn't used to drinking much, but he didn't know what to say exactly. He could hear Anaxantis respond “Oh, Hemarchidas, don't fuss.” Then there was the red headed Mukthar who had laid one of his greasy mits on his knees. Civility had its limits, yet he didn't want to do anything that could mar the pleasant ambiance of the evening.

Timishi looked at Anaxantis from under his eyelashes, his head slightly tilted down.

“If I didn't know you better, Mukthar, I would say you are blushing. Yes, you are. Yes, you are,” Anaxantis said, waving his wine cup, feeling on top of the world.

“That is maybe because I was thinking of challenging you to a game,” Timishi answered in unusually subdued tone.

“Ooh, games. I love games. I'm good at games,” Anaxantis crowed. “What's the game called?”

“The mravinshinohr.”

“The marivi... mvari... what? What?”

“It loosely translates to ‘love fight’. But maybe we shouldn't. It's late.”

“Bollocks. It's still early. You're afraid I will beat you, aren't you? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.”

Anaxantis felt an almost irrepressible urge to giggle.

“Just, so you understand: the winner owns the loser till sunrise. And maybe it's not fair, after all, I know the game and you don't.”

“Bollocks, I say. Bol. Ol. Ollol. Ocks. Bollollocks. You're just trying to worm out of it because you realize you can't win from me.”

“Well, if you insist... But we'll need some privacy. It's a game for strictly two people. Could we go to your chambers?”

Anaxantis frowned.

“Oh, I don't know, we wouldn't exactly be alone, you know.”

“Ah, you have a man servant there?”

“Oh, I wouldn't call Tarno exactly a man servant—”

“Tarno?”, Timishi said. “See, you call us barbarians, but no Mukthar mother would ever call her son Dog.

We give our children proper names. By the hairy pits of Shardosh, we give our dogs proper names, like Gnasher or Killer, names they can be proud of.”

Anaxantis flushed.

“Oh, his mother didn't call him that. It's more of a nickname. Kind of a joke. And you know ancient Baltoc?”

“There you go again, supposing we know nothing because you know nothing,” Timishi replied irritated.

“And by the way, if you call that a joke, it is one in very poor taste.”

Anaxantis leaned, somewhat unsteadily over.

“Oh, Timishi, I'm so sowwy... sorry... I didn't mean to hurl youl... hurt your feelings.”

Timishi grinned.

“You're very cute when you grin,” Anaxantis snickered.

“Mukthars aren't cute. Never,” Timishi replied curtly. But he kept grinning.

“Ooh, I know... Let's go to your apartments. I warn you though: I'm amazing with dice.”

“There are no dice.”

Anaxantis put a finger to his lips, nodding his head at Hemarchidas who was busy trying to keep Rodomesh at bay.

“Shhht,” he lisped, taking a full jug out of Lorcko's hand. “Thank you very much, kind sir. Timishi, you bring the cups.”

Lorcko shrank back when the prince lisped “Shht” once more in a haze of wine fumes.

“He's going to have such a hangover tomorrow. Strange, I served him only the one cup of undiluted wine.”

Except Lorcko, neither the guests who were saying their goodbyes, nor the pages who were trying to clean the worst of the debris of the banquet, noticed the two princes leaving together.

“So what was this game called again?” Anaxantis asked, looking around the room that seemed nothing the worse for being inhabited by a Mukthar prince.

“Mravinshinohr. The love fight.”

“How is it="8pt" wi"1e played?”

“Simple. The first to give in loses.”

“Ah, yes, simple, I see.” But he didn't. “What's the prize. There's got to be a prize. Don't tell me there is no prize. I love prizes.”

“Yes, yes, there is a prize. The winner gets serviced by the loser, then he gets to plant his flag and make his mark. He owns the loser till sunrise.”

“That's a strange prize,” Anaxantis said, frowning.

“Now strip to your underwear.”

“Huh?”

“Strip. To your underwear.”

“Oh, is it a game with clay or paint and we don't want to get our clothes dirty?”

“Something like that, yes,” the Mukthar prince grinned, taking of his shirt. “But without the clay or paint.”

Leaning against the table Anaxantis followed his example. When he was standing in his underwear, Timishi, only wearing a loincloth, laughed out loud.

“What are those ridiculous things?”

“What? These? Underpants, of course. They're comfy and snug.”

“Well, they look ridiculous. Pants with the legs cut off. Never seen anything like it.”

“Ridiculous? As opposed to how distinguished you look in your diapers?”

“Diapers? My loincloth? I'll have you know this is perfectly normal Mukthar underwear. Of the best quality no less. I'll have you servicing me till you faint for this, Ximerionian.”

“He looks soft,” Timishi thought, “pleasing to the eye but soft. Those golden hairs on their own are enough to drive you mad and those eyes... It's as if he asks to be possessed. It's not as if he has no muscles. There is a certain stringy quality to him. But I can take him.”

“What are we playing again?” Anaxantis asked.

“The love fight. I've told you a million times already.”

“How quaint. How adorable,” the Ximerionian prince thought, and he smiled. “I bet they call a banquet ‘the food battle.’ Must have something to do with that warlike streak that runs through the whole of their cul—”

“What the fuck,” he exclaimed involuntarily as Timishi flew at him, grabbed him by the middle and threw him to the floor.

“You're going down, Ximerionian,” Timishi panted triumphantly.

“The love fight is a real fight,” Anaxantis thought, panicking.

Then the long lessons in the woods, the many times Bortram had smacked him down, kicked in. Half drunk as he was, he managed to press one knee forcefully in his opponent's groin. The merest relaxation of the hold the Mukthar had on him was enough for Anaxantis to slip out from under him.

He managed to crawl upright, only to see Timishi lunge at him again. There was just enough time for him to grab the Mukthar by the shoulders and drag him along while he let himself fall backward. He planted his right foot in Timishi's belly, forcing all air out of the Mukthar's lungs and made him fly in a wide arc above him. The Mukthar prince landed painfully, hitting his head against the foot end of his bed. Before he had a chance to turn around, Anaxantis was sitting on his back, forcaround, As hing both his arms backwards.

Timishi wrestled with all his might to get free of his opponent, and it seemed at first it wouldn't take him long to succeed.

“Lie still, Mukthar, or by all the Gods, I'll dislocate both your arms.”

Timishi groaned painfully as he felt his arms being pulled backwards in a totally unnatural way.

“See, my Mukthar friend, the shoulders are wonderfully constructed,” Anaxantis snickered. ”Yes, they are.

Yes, they are. They have these things called tendons. They keep everything, bones, muscles, kind of together.

And once when you stretch them out too much, they never regain their elasticity again. No, they don't. No, they don't. And that's too bad, because, you see, without them keeping everything together as they should, your poor, poor arms will dislocate spontaneously when you try to lift something heavy. Like, let's say, a sword. You'll be the Mukthar who can't hold a sword. You'll be the Mukthar who won't be able to engage in battle. You'll be the useless Mukthar.”