Feast(2)

"Gods' blood, must we stand out here like scolded children waiting for permission to piss?" Laedio hissed through clenched teeth, his fingers twitching . His eyes darted across the gilded doorframe, taking in the obscene carvings of frolicking nymphs and grapevines that probably cost more than his entire company's yearly earnings.

Jarza stood motionless beside him, the seams of his silk jacket emitting ominous creaks with every measured breath. "For these gilded peacocks, ritual is the glue holding their fragile world together," the giant rumbled. "Strip away their ceremonies and what are they? Just men—no better than the rest of us."

Laedio rolled his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't stick. "We've been waiting longer than it takes to geld a stallion. I say we—"

The doors swung inward with a dramatic flourish, cutting off his rebellion. The scene beyond struck them like a physical blow—a riot of colors, scents, and sounds so overwhelming it made Alpheo's battle-hardened instincts flare in warning. Mountains of glistening food towered on silver platters. Tapestries depicting absurdly heroic battles shimmered with actual gold thread. And everywhere—fucking everywhere—nobles stared at them with the thinly veiled fascination usually reserved for exotic animals in traveling menageries.

The musicians played on, their lively tune now underscored by the awkward silence. A mummer performed an elaborate pantomime of a knight slaying a dragon to absolutely no applause.

At the far dais, the royal family posed like particularly bored statues. To the king's right stood Robert—back straight as a spear shaft, white mane perfectly coiffed, looking for all the world like someone had rammed a flagpole up his arse and called it posture. To the left lounged the prince examining his nails with more interest than he'd granted the entire feast thus far. The eldest princess's absence was conspicuous—probably off somewhere sensible, Alpheo thought.

"The guests of His Grace may approach!" Robert's voice rang out, each syllable dripping with rehearsed grandeur.

Gods, even his announcements sound like he's reciting epic poetry at his own funeral, Alpheo mused as he stepped forward. He moved with deliberate grace, every inch the polished courtier—a far cry from the bloodstained mercenary who'd once killed a man with a soup ladle.

When he reached the prescribed distance, he dropped to one knee with a flourish of his ridiculous cloak. "This unworthy soul thanks Your Grace for your generosity," he intoned, laying the humility on thicker than the sauce on the roast peacock. "May your reign be as enduring as the mountains."

The prince's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Rise," he commanded, flicking his fingers in a gesture that managed to be both dismissive and condescending. "Eat, drink, and take shelter beneath our roof. By the sacred laws of hospitality, no harm shall befall you here." He paused just long enough to make the next words sound like an afterthought. "May the gods bear witness to my oath."

The moment the prince finished speaking, the hall exploded back into its carefully curated chaos. Nobles resumed braying about their hunting exploits, ladies tittered behind jeweled fans, and a group of merchants nearly came to blows over whether the mummer's dragon was meant to be metaphorical or just poorly constructed.

Alpheo waded through the perfumed crowd, acutely aware of the stares boring into his back. These people had spent their lives swaddled in silk while he'd clawed his way up from the filth—and yet, the sight of his scarred hands reaching for their gilded cutlery seemed to fascinate them as much as it repelled.

He speared a slice of spiced venison and took a cautious bite. Fire erupted across his tongue. "Fucking hells!" he choked, reaching blindly for his wine goblet. "Did they slaughter the pepper merchant and use his ground-up bones as seasoning?"

Glancing around for sympathy, he found none. His men were too busy committing acts of violence upon the feast. Egil was inhaling honeyed figs like a man who'd never seen fruit before. Laedio had somehow acquired an entire roast fowl and was gnawing on it with single-minded determination. Even Jarza—usually a paragon of restraint—was tearing into a lamb shank with tears of joy in his eyes, grease dripping down his chin onto the already-strained silk.

"This is incredible," Egil moaned around a mouthful of spiced pheasant. "Tastes like... like..."

"Like someone set a spice caravan on fire and called it cuisine?" Alpheo offered, eyeing a suspiciously glowing green jelly with deep mistrust.

Laedio shrugged, already reaching for another pastry. "Better than moldy hardtack and regret."

Disappointed by the behaviour of his companion, Alpheo scanned the table in search of potatoes, his favorite dish. Surely, they couldn't mess up potatoes, was it even possible to do that? Yet, to his dismay, they were nowhere to be found as potatoes were seens as the food for pigs . 

"Oi, come here," Alpheo called out to a passing servant carrying trays of wine. As the servant approached, Alpheo snatched a cup ''Point me where the potatoes are''.

The question caused the servant to give a small smirk.After all no-one would dare to think of finding such low food on the tables of the nobles.

That smile took Alpheo by surprise, which then quickly morphed in anger. He could let the princes and nobles pass off few comments directed at him, they were at an higher position than him , but there was no way he would allow a servant to make fun of him.

He restrained himself from lashing out physically but leaned in close, his voice low and dangerous.

"You have exactly three seconds to point me in the direction of what I requested," Alpheo whispered, his grip tightening on the servant's arm. "Remember, I could just as easily disembowel you after this feast, and your prince wouldn't bat an eye. The next time I catch you smirking at me, I'll cut your mouth ear to ear so you'll never be able to stop smiling. Understand?"

Realizing something was wrong , the servant lowered his head in submission. He tried to inform him of their absence , trying to explain the reason as less humiliating as possible.

He failed.

With a swift and forceful motion, he grabbed hold of the servant's ears and neck , pinning him in place. The servant winced in pain as Alpheo gave such a hard yank so hard that blood began to trickle down from the servant's ears, staining his clothes . Though the servant whimpered in agony, he dared not raise his voice.

The commotion, as small as it was still caught the attention of those nearby who stared at the mercenary captain , who just returned the stares with a steely one of his own . The crowd, sensing the intensity of the situation, quickly averted their eyes, not wanting to be near a ticking bomb.They knew of the importance of the mercenary's presence for the war-effort , so they preferred to avoid causing a scene. 

"On second thought, I've lost my appetite," Alpheo declared, his voice laced with disdain as he released his grip on the servant's ear. The servant, now bloodied and scared , nodded frantically in response, eager to escape Alpheo's wrath.Alpheo turned around and walked back to his companions, feeling the lingering stares from the other guests to his back .

Better like this, he reasoned as he ignored the stares. He was in no mood for useless talks with these high turds and so he instead decided to come back to his dear rats.

"What fresh hell was that about?" Jarza rumbled around a mouthful of bread, crumbs tumbling into his beard like snow into a mountain crevice.

Alpheo leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking ominously. "Just a gutter rat who forgot his place," he said, examining his nails with feigned disinterest. "I merely reminded him that when men like us ask for something, men like him fetch it. Preferably before we lose our patience and start removing fingers."

Jarza's chuckle was the sound of boulders grinding together. "Want us to give him a more... thorough reminder after the feast? Could teach him a lesson about proper service." He flexed one massive hand, the knuckles cracking like gunshots.

Alpheo pretended to consider it, tapping his chin. "Tempting. But let's not kill him. Dead servants make for awkward dinner conversations with our royal host." He flashed a razor-thin smile. "Just ensure he remembers tonight every time he looks in a mirror."

"Your mercy knows no bounds," Egil quipped, licking grease from his fingers with obscene relish before reaching for another roast fowl.

Alpheo watched his men descend upon the feast like a pack of starved wolves—Egil tearing into meat with his teeth, Laedio using an expensive-looking bread knife to pick at his nails, Jarza somehow making the act of drinking wine look like a threat. Their manners would give a noblewoman the vapors, but at least they weren't starting fights.

Yet.

"I'm going to circulate," Alpheo announced, pushing back from the table. "Try not to start any wars, seduce any wives, or challenge anyone to duels while I'm gone."

"No promises," Laedio muttered around a mouthful of food.

The banquet hall was a riot of color and sound—nobles preening like exotic birds, musicians sawing away at instruments worth more than a soldier's yearly pay, and servants weaving through the crowd like ghosts, ignored by all until needed.

Alpheo moved through the throng, his presence parting the sea of silk and jewels like a shark cutting through minnows. The food had been disappointing (where were the gods-damned potatoes?), the company insufferable, but the entertainment...

Now that was something.

A troupe of jugglers worked the crowd, their hands a blur as they kept a small arsenal of daggers, goblets, and what looked suspiciously like a noble's signet ring spinning through the air. Nearby, a lute player plucked out a melody that had several lords nodding along—though Alpheo suspected they were just pretending to understand the composition.

But it was the mummers who truly held his attention.

One performer in particular commanded the center of a growing crowd—a wiry man with a face like aged leather and a grin that promised mischief. In one hand he held a torch; in the other, a bottle of something that smelled potent enough to strip paint.

The mummer took a dramatic swig, swished the liquid around his mouth, then—before Alpheo's disbelieving eyes—breathed out a roaring gout of flame that lit the torch with a whoosh of heat.

"What in the seven hells—?" Alpheo breathed.

The crowd erupted in applause as the mummer extinguished the torch and stuck out his tongue—completely unharmed. A noblewoman swooned (or pretended to; Alpheo couldn't tell with these people). A lord dropped his goblet in shock.

Alpheo's mind raced. "Special drink that doesn't conduct heat?"he muttered to himself."Some alchemical trick? Or..." His eyes narrowed. "Or maybe the bastard's just that good."

For the first time that evening, Alpheo found himself genuinely impressed. Not by the gilded plates or the pompous speeches, but by a traveling performer who could spit fire and live to tell the tale.

"Enjoying the spectacle?"

The voice came from behind Alpheo, smooth as honeyed wine and twice as intoxicating. He turned to find himself face-to-face with Jasmine, her emerald eyes alight with amusement.

Alpheo executed a perfect half-bow—just enough to be polite, not enough to seem servile. "The fire-breather is... intriguing, Your Grace."

Jasmine's lips curled in a wicked smile. "Want to know his secret?" She leaned in conspiratorially, the scent of jasmine and something darker wafting from her. "The poor man has no tongue."

Alpheo blinked. "Pardon?"

"What he shows the crowd is a pig's tongue," she continued, clearly delighting in his shock. "Sewn to the stump. Notice how he never opens wide?"

Alpheo's stomach turned even as his mind raced. "That's either the most grotesque jest I've heard tonight, or the most creative mutilation."

Jasmine laughed—a sound like shattering crystal. "Oh, I like you. Robert said you were clever."

"Robert says many things," Alpheo countered dryly. "Most of them wrong."

"True," she conceded, tapping a jeweled finger against her lips. "But he was right about one thing—you're far more interesting than anyone else at this dreadfully dull feast."

The princess swept her gaze across the hall with undisguised contempt—past the preening lords, the simpering ladies, her own father holding court like a statue brought reluctantly to life. "Tell me, Alpheo," she purred, "how does a man like you endure such... pageantry?"

Alpheo considered his words carefully. "The same way one endures dysentery, Your Grace. With gritted teeth and the knowledge it will eventually end."

Jasmine's resulting laughter turned several heads. "Marvelous! Who knew inviting you mercenaries would liven things up?" She stepped closer, her silk gown whispering against his boots. "Now, would you like to see something truly entertaining?"

Alpheo's pulse quickened despite himself. This woman was dangerous—not in the way a sword was dangerous, but like a beautifully crafted poison. And yet...

"I live to be entertained, Your Grace."

Jasmine's smile turned feral. "Excellent. Then follow me." She turned on her heel, the train of her gown slithering behind her like a serpent's tail. "Oh, and Alpheo?" She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes gleaming. "Do try to keep up."

As Alpheo followed the princess through a discreet side door, he couldn't shake the feeling he'd just stepped into a game where the rules were written in blood. And the most dangerous part? He found himself looking forward to learning them.