“An inauguration gift,” the captain muttered.
The King straightened and raised his hands. Hanging from them were several rows of brightly coloured bead necklaces. Marius bit his upper lip.
“From Manky Glenis in the Pudding Square markets more like,” he mumbled back. “I’d recognise her tat anywhere.”
“It is never unwise to be prudent in one’s outlay,” Bomthe replied as the King raised his booty high above his head and called to his people in a joyous voice. “Besides, one must tailor one’s gifts to the expectations of the receiver. It would seem we have made the right estimation in this instance.” Before them, the King was busy rummaging through the trunk, dispensing penny rings and five-for-a-thruppence bead bracelets to the stream of islanders who had appeared from nowhere at his call. He looked over to Bomthe and nodded with expansive humour, a gesture the captain accepted with a small incline of the head. “It would seem we are now welcome in His Majesty’s realm.”
“Oh, happy day.”
“Don’t underestimate the value of our trade here, Mister Helles,” Bomthe said as he turned and dismissed the men, who quickly sought the shade of the nearby trees, and the company of the island girls who were keen to show off their new jewellery to the tanned sailors so admiring of their charms. “We do very well from our commercial endeavours here. The archipelago is a source of almost unending bleaching and heating elements.”
Marius stared at him while understanding took long seconds to register. “Shit?” he finally asked. “You trade for shit?”
“I believe the commercial term is guano,” Bomthe strode into the square and greeted the new ruler with a solid embrace and double-handshake. “And I have it on good authority that is it very high-grade shit indeed.” The king let him go and turned to crush Marius in a similar embrace. “This end of the island alone is a veritable gold mine of commercial-grade heating and bleaching material. I’m sure you can see why.”
The King let go of Marius and stepped into the centre of the village. He clapped his hands several times in quick succession. Immediately, each of the islanders turned their attention to him. He shot off a quick-fire speech and they leaped to their feet and began busying themselves in diving into huts and pulling out items of furniture. Young girls ran behind the huts and returned with large fruits of various descriptions balanced upon their heads. Bomthe took Marius by the elbow and ushered him toward the table.
“I believe we are invited to join the inauguration feast,” he said, “where it would be considered advisable to eat everything that is put before us and drink anything we are offered, do I make myself clear?”
“Like good diplomats, eh?”
“It does involve sacrifices.”
They sat at the King’s right hand and the villagers and sailors intermingled around a series of planks laid on the sand before the table. Four natives emerged from behind the largest hut, carrying a long bark platter between them, upon which rested a mound of cooked meat. They laid it before the King, who piled his own plate high then indicated to Bomthe and Marius to do the same. They complied, and once they had finished, the rest of the village paraded past the table to take a meagre share for themselves. Once everyone was seated, the King clapped his hands, and the village fell to eating. Teenage girls passed amongst them, handing out small quantities of stunted and burned vegetables. Between mouthfuls, Marius glanced over at the sullen child still turning the spit.
“What about that?” he asked Bomthe, indicating the turning meat. “I thought that was dinner.”
Bomthe raised his eyebrows. “Hm. I’ll ask.” He leaned over to the king, and asked a quick question in the native tongue. The King replied, and looked over to Marius, laughing. Bomthe smiled in return. “That is for the children,” he said. “The late monarch’s favourite hunting dog, apparently. The natives hope the children will ingest its loyalty and cunning along with its flesh.”
“Huh. Then what are we eating, his favourite horse?”
Bomthe stared down at his plate and blinked several times before leaning back to the King to ask another question. Upon the reply he straightened, and stared out beyond the huts to the distant sea. He swallowed, then nodded to himself as if confirming some long-held inner thought. Marius noticed the action and stopped scooping the greasy meat into his mouth.
“What?”
“We are not eating the late monarch’s favourite horse,” Bomthe said carefully.
“Well, no, I hardly expected…”
“We are, in fact, eating the late monarch.”
Marius felt what little blood remained in his face drain into his boots. “What?” he asked in a voice suddenly devoid of moisture.
“The islanders believe that it will imbue them with his strength, his nobility, and his wisdom.”
“You mean they’re…”
Very deliberately, with the King’s gaze firmly upon him, Bomthe reached down and scooped up a handful of meat. He placed it in his mouth, chewed several times and swallowed.
“Be a good fellow, Mister Helles,” he said, eyes fixed upon the horizon. “Eat your wisdom.”
Marius stared at Bomthe, then at the King, the islanders, the sailors lounging around the village square laughing and stuffing their faces with handfuls of dripping meat. “But…”
“Trade with this village is worth several times more than the lives of everyone on board my vessel. You and I included. We are guests at the most important occasion this archipelago has seen in more than thirty years. If we offer such a gross insult as to refuse to dine with the new King, what do you think would happen to that trade?” Bomthe scooped up another gobbet of meat and ate it, closing his eyes as he swallowed. “What do you think our lives would be worth then?”
“You’d be surprised,” Marius muttered. He reached down, picked up a few strands of the stringy meat, and held it up in salute to the King, who was looking around Bomthe at Marius with a curious half-smile on his lips.
“Ah well,” he said, smiling back, “let’s hope they serve you with chips, mate.”
“If you like your tongue,” Bomthe said in the same equal tone he’d been using since discovering the identity of their meal, “I’d suggest you keep it still.” He slid the last of his meat into his mouth and swallowed. “You’re on a very thin plank as it is, Mister Helles.”
Whilst Marius was considering how wise it would be to push the conversation any further the King rose, cleared his throat for attention, and phlegmed up another speech. Children scurried to clear away the meal, much to the relief of Marius. The King sat down, elbowing Bomthe with a dirty chuckle and pointing to the door of the largest hut. The curtains across its entrance swished open, half a dozen naked girls ran out, and the dancing began.