“It. . it was far worse than a raid, Your Majesty,” Octavia replied unevenly. “Most of the city was destroyed, and there were reports of widespread rape, looting, and more done by the rebels you supported and your local forces.”
“Pah!” He slammed his fist down on the throne, and Octavia swore she could feel the floor shake. The man half stood in anger. “I’ve never supported them. I cannot tell every single little whelp of a pissant lord with an airship and two dozen raiders that he can do this or can’t do that. I’d spend my entire life chasing them up and down the accursed peninsula!” Bismark bellowed at her. “I already executed that imbecile, if only just to get your army out of my country.” He glared at her, and Octavia involuntarily shrank back. “With that done, I shall go out and crush your army for being foolish enough to come here in the first place!”
He sat back down in the chair, obviously seething with anger. After a few moments he visibly calmed himself, and slid open a hidden compartment in the arm of his throne. He fiddled with something, then directed his glare back at Octavia. “And I’m sure you got picked for this assignment because you’re stupid enough to think it was an honor, eh? Does Rome want a full-scale war? Is that why they send babies to negotiate? Do they have no honor?”
Finally, Octavia felt her spine stiffen. “No, Your Majesty. You have not returned the other emissaries we’ve sent, alive or dead. So how are we to tell if you want peace when all signs point to war? And my name is Senatora Octavia Pelia, daughter of General Horatio Pelia. You knew him as an honorable opponent. He defeated you personally at the battle of Vilnus and your top generals in the Seven Woods War, and here you are accusing me, his own daughter, of being dishonorable? I think it is you, sir, who has no honor. You send spies and rabble-rousers to ferment trouble because you dare not face us on the field of battle, like men.”
Octavia thought she had gone too far, but the king nodded in a peculiar, almost proud way. “Ah, I knew that you must be a daughter of the north. A daughter of the general? You must have been tough to live in that household. I once saw the man take the arm off an ulvkankisk in combat. I’ve never seen someone take apart one of our mechanical wolves in such a fashion.”
Oh, a mecha-wolf, Octavia realized. That’s what they call them? Ulvkankisk?
Bismark must have pressed some button or pulled some lever, because within a few minutes, the sound of chimes indicated more visitors to the great hall. A large door slid squeaking into a pocket in the wall, and a large party of warriors, servants, and what Octavia assumed were probably clerics entered the hall. The servants promptly began assembling a large dining table in the middle of the throne room. The party of warriors and clerics made their salutes to the king, then gathered off to one side while the servants finished their jobs.
Only when one of the “servants” whipped another one for not moving fast enough did Octavia notice the iron collars circling their necks. Slaves, not servants. A child slave had stopped to place a few drop of oil on the door’s exposed piston, and the door slid shut again with quiet precision. Something familiar about the girl tugged at her memory, as if she’d seen the child somewhere before.
Another chime indicated the arrival of the midday feast. A slave slid open an ingeniously conceal door in the wall, revealing a dumbwaiter that produced an unending flow of steaming hot food. The warriors and clerics jostled for positions at the table. Octavia stood to the side, between her two unmoving guards. The king stood and descended from the dais to settle in a plainer wooden throne.
Finally, grudgingly, he waved her over, pushing aside several other occupants of a bench on his left side. “You may be our enemy, but you are also a warrior. Not with weapons, perhaps, but words. I’ve always believed the quill stronger than the quarrel.”
Octavia stared at him, then slowly sat at the table, nervous under the hostile stares of the other diners. What little appetite she’d had vanished. But the trays of steaming food called to her, and soon she was devouring her first hot meal in a full day. The king drank deeply from his mead flagon, and called for refills many times. The atmosphere was jovial, but tense.
After satisfying the immediate needs of her body, Octavia observed the other feasters. One in particular was eating little, drinking little, and generally staring her way far more often than not. She met his gaze, noting the distinct purple eyes that darted away as soon as hers met them. Ah, must be a relative. A son, perhaps? He definitely does not have the same presence as the king. His gaze returned, and this time Octavia could see some fire inside them.
The purple-eyed stranger stood and interrupted the table chatter. “Father, how can you let this southerner be present at our table? She should be down in the dungeons with the rest of her kind. Or on her back in your quarters, if you’d rather,” he added with a sneer. Several of his companions laughed. “Her kind does not belong among us. They are our enemies; one of their armies is at our door, and you invite her to midday feast?”
The king remained seated, taking his time to chew on a mouthful from a large leg of mutton in his fist. He slowly put down his food and licked his fingers one by one, obviously enjoying making his son stew as he waited for a response. “Lokus, you must learn some diplomacy and patience, along with some manners,” he said at last. “If your mother was here to see this-”
“But she is not, Father. Mother has been dead for ten years and you let this-this Roman sit in her place.”
Bismark regarded his son with what Octavia perceived as sadness and resignation. “When it is your turn to be king, Lokus, then you may decide who will sit where. You may even decide who will live and die. But now I am king, and as the senatora is a political emissary of the Roman emperor, she will be afforded the dignity due a civilized people. Of which we are one. Something you may need to remember.”
Lokus turned beet red. “I am no longer a child.”
“Then stop acting like one,” the king said derisively.
His son turned and, cape billowing in his wake, fled the hall.
“Please forgive my son; he is hotheaded, like his father,” the king to her. A servant handed him a fresh flagon of mead and Bismark took a long swig. “And he has yet to learn the power of thought over action. I had hoped his mother might be able to teach him, but she passed ten long years ago.”
The food was cleared away, and the slaves returned with bowls of smoking leaf and chewing tobacco. Men pulled long pipes out and soon an acrid haze hung about the table. Octavia coughed as the smoke burned her lungs and made her eyes water.
“Horrible stuff, isn’t it? I don’t partake, but my vassals enjoy the pastime,” Bismark said pleasantly.
He really seems to like talking to me, Octavia realized. I suppose he hasn’t really had anyone who isn’t a flunky to talk to since his wife died.
The mood was far more jovial, now that the prince was gone, and conversation flowed thick and fast. Men boasted with war stories, while one cleric delighted in telling Octavia all about the Nortland gods and goddesses. At least an hour passed, and Octavia had been pulled into the conversation when the main doors of the hall slammed open.
Lokus had returned, at the head of a large party. Pure hatred twisted his face as he approached the table, now fully armored. Octavia stared at the man as he bore down on the feast participants.
“I’m glad you chose to return, Lokus. There’s plenty to eat, still,” the king said, apparently unconcerned by his son’s entrance.
His son drew his sword. “Now is not the time for feasting, Father. You will abdicate the throne. Now.”
The king looked at his son and his followers and laughed. “What? Are you going to take on the whole citadel? This is my kingdom. Mine. You shall not take it from me. You’ll have your turn in a few years, whelp. After you’ve proven your worth.” The king stood slowly, his balance affected by the wine he had imbibed. “Guards!” he called. “See my son back to his chambers, and let him rest his hot head a while.”