Cole straightened his collar. Light grew, along with the density of people. A bunching of officers chatting happily obscured the entrance to the palace. Cole gauged by this group the sort of crowd he could expect – those lingering outside were a mix of ranks from colonels on down, but that colonels weren't immediately introduced meant that not only was the hall into the Gold Room crowded, it was crowded with important people. That all the waiting colonels were undisturbed by their waiting truly signified the magnitude of the event.
The Gold Room had been improvised out of a solarium (or, 'garden shed', as Cole liked to think of it) originally unattached to the main palace, and thus had only one true 'entrance', though many ways in. The hall leading into the Gold Room had become more of a vein, as the Palace filled in behind and beyond it, but they had kept the room itself as garden-ensconced as they could. Every window seemed to look out in a vast expanse of royal plots – an effect only sometimes illusory – and where they didn't, marvelous paintings of the various wilds of Ainjir filled in.
Thinking back to his first visit to the Gold Room as an untraveled youth, Cole still had enough space in his over-full thoughts to feel chagrin at how he had marveled at the paintings. Now that he had been to most of the places depicted, it was easy to see that the paintings weren't really anything like – then again, the paintings didn't feature lots of dead people or rain on him for months at a time, which was an aesthetic choice that Cole could respect.
As Cole approached, he felt the growing warmth of the crowd, along with the usual invigoration that came with keeping afloat in such a social event. The desire to keep the Gold Room open to ambient light and the stretch of royal gardens and game fields made entrance tedious, the only access being the hall (which really wasn't 'narrow' so much as simply 'full'), and entering through the gardens (excluding during specific garden parties) gauche. Just about when he would have breached the bubble of the crowds' awareness, he peeled off to the side, disappearing behind a shrubbery.
Behind the shrubbery was an exceedingly narrow path, and at the end of the path was a set of bushes that appeared to create a solid lining in front of the wall behind them, but in actuality were staggered such that a relatively lithe and knowledgeable person could slip between them. Then, of course, just as the bushes had appeared solid, so did the wall, and yet the stone featured one of those bright veins of green the palace tower was known for, and which, when one put a hand over it, moved very much like a door handle.
Of course a palace in Keadar-Ainjir's city would have secret entrances and exits. Of course Cole, as he rose through the ranks, made the effort to find as many such secret passages as he could.
Few knew how keenly the Royal Family remembered and marked that once, it was only by the loyalty of nursemaids and certain disused doors that they had escaped eradication. These days it was a better-known fact that the Prince's myriad of lovers had a tendency to appear as if conjured from air, sneaking about the palace as if intimate with more than all the secrets of the body politic. That the Prince himself was the most able offender was a running joke, but one at which the royal laugh turned sharp.
Cole checked for spies, then slid into the narrow opening, finding himself behind the intersection of two great swaths of saffron cloth, the fiery orange light filtering through them an apt color for the sudden, sweltering heat of the air. He shut the door and adjusted to a great din of noise – the loud mix of people chatting, focused by the bays and made into a jumble, and the echo of the orchestral pipes and strings that accompanied the dancers. Until the ringing of his ears grew less painful, he brushed tell-tale stray leaves off of his uniform, making sure he had tracked no dirt in on his shoes. The only thing that could turn an otherwise clever gesture of nonconformity and royal intimacy into a social blunder of highest import – implying one knew a secret entrance only to admit it absolutely by tracking in mud.
When sure of his outfit, Cole took a deep breath of the sweet, heavy air, and very carefully stepped around the edge of the curtain.
No one saw him. No one could see anything; the bright burnished gold leaf covering every column and wall, glittering in the inlay of the roof, lit with sconces and chandeliers of vined gold and crystal was worse than the echoing noise. The room shone so brightly, it was like emerging into the morning sun after a long and dark night.
The night, too, was used to its fullest advantage; rather than lighting all of the garden walks, they left the ones visible through the windows a deep, purpled black. It was almost as if they had been covered in velvet, but the moving of shadow-shapes as the wind tossed the leaves of the ornamental trees gave them away. The room, too, had the delicate touch of an artful eye to it. The largest undecorated portions of the Gold Room – two blank panels facing each other across the hall in the center of the longest walls – usually served to dim and make manageable its vaunting luxuriance. Tonight, these panels were decked with the same saffron that had led the guests from the Academy, beginning at the high, vaulted roof with the saffron and the boar, and ending in an intricate weave of crossing and criss-crossing pieces, growing thinner and thinner, until they met, their color transformed by the thickened layers into the Princely crimson, tied in tight, beautifully knotted bundles at the bottom.
A not-so-subtle allusion. No doubt there were a hundred such other little visual jokes scattered about– the Prince himself had probably dictated decorations. He had an eye for that sort of thing. So did Cole. It was one reason why they got along so well.
It was easy to immerse himself the crowd, and even easier to put on a smile and wander. The stark bright-dark dichotomies of the Gold Room made watching the people moving through it like wandering a field of stars, or standing in a storming sea, never sure which color was sky or ocean, and which would move at the slightest touch, coming alive at the last moment.
It was very much like a picture, or a play. The figure of a slightly uncouth military man, dressed in his dour dark uniform of gray or deep blue, or black, wading amongst the bright noble schools was an Ainjir folk figure – the venerable clown, who came to the rescue, exploded in violence, and often cuckolded the figures of the stage behind the scenes as a matter of irresistible course only to be thwarted in any course of true love he might pursue.
Cole conformed himself to the mold admirably, passing anonymously through the crowds of more piebald clowns. When they found out, if they bothered to ask, that it was Esras Cole, there was usually a flutter of bows which rapidly turned into a repeating joke as noble jostled noble, causing new people to join the circle, causing new instances of surprise introductions. Crossing the floor was a kind of calisthenics. Cole was famous, after all. Even if the Prince had helped his fame along mostly with jibes and parcels of wit, he was still famous as the young, bright, cadet who had routed the rebels.
Cole joined easily into the patter. It had never been a rout – the war had been nothing but a brutal slog, a burdensome five years of physical and emotional trial lightened only by damaging self-delusion, but there was a difference between polite and genuine interest, and a difference between ignorance and relief. He could see the shine of gratitude on some faces, when they spoke eagerly of how 'such a little thing' had 'dragged on so', and he assured them that it was so, even from his lofty, experienced seat, because to do otherwise would be to stoke a fear only just beginning to fade. He comforted the comfortless. Entertained the ignorant. Exhilarated the eager. And when the time came for sobriety, he gave a solemn toast.
Fun as it was to play the social game again, Cole wasn't interested in continuing it for very long. Normally it was easy enough to partition off his public face and his private thoughts, but it wasn't the difficulty, or lack thereof, of doing it that bothered him.
There was something deeply wrong with Cole's world. He couldn't even think of that phrase without wanting to reach for another glass of wine – the world 'deep' meant 'down' meant Nika in the dungeon.
The word 'war' meant Nika, down in the dungeon.
The word 'Comid' meant Nika, down in the dungeon.
The word 'army' meant Nika, down in the dungeon.
The word 'victory' meant Nika, down in the dungeon.
The words 'military', 'council', 'peace', 'guest', 'ball', 'dance', 'honor', 'night', and 'day' all meant Nika, down in the dungeon.
The word 'Cole' meant Nika, down in the dungeon.
Made conversation something of a trial, even for him. The word 'trial' came up in his mind, and he finally did reach for another glass, in spite of the instinct not to worsen his growing tipsiness, because 'trial' meant worse things than just Nika down in the dungeon.
He talked about dresses.
“What a fine fabric, my Lady – did you find it yourself?”
“Oh,” she said, giving a little curtsy to the compliment, “East Namara wool, you know – with the peace the sheep are just coming back and I knew, I just knew, it would be finer fleece than anything.”
“Well, I commend you, for such admirable foresight.”
She gave another curtsy, flush to her cheeks as she boldly looked up into his face. Was it not Esras Cole who had freed them, and the sheep of the Namera plains? Didn't he smile at her, just so, blue eyes sparkling with robust honesty, like a soldier's should?
Didn't they say he had only one interest – but didn't every lady sometimes fantasy she could be the exception?
Cole made damn sure they did. A lack of apparent sexual interest made familiarity easy, and familiarity allowed the more direct expression of sexual interest.
“Well, my good man – isn't it something? Finally, after all these years?”
“Indeed,” Cole looked up from his glass, eyes sharp. “Military efficiency, eh?”
The nobleman didn't quite know what to say, so he blew into his mustache, looking vaguely uncomfortable as he sought help in the gazes of his fellows. “Er... but indeed, it was a difficult task...” He wasn't used to defending the military.
“You don't need to tell me, sir,” Cole said, voice carefully cold. “There were days I could hardly get my evening sit-down and have a smoke.”
The gentleman got a little more uncomfortable, but smiled all the same. “Couldn't you, you say?”
“They just kept telling me, 'There's a war on, sir.' 'No reason a man can't have a good smoke,' I'd say.” Cole looked up at them, merry twinkle in his eye. “That's the last time I hire Comid servants.”
Cole smiled. They burst into appreciative chortling, elbows poking into ribs for a good bit of play. That he could joke with them made him almost a friend, didn't it? Didn't one brother rib another, just for fun?
Didn't they say the military had no sense of humor about itself? Wasn't a joke about one's own bread-and-butter a most good-humored and friendly joke – and noble, too?
Cole let them know that he wasn't averse to hearing a bad word or two, even about himself. That way, he always knew what was being said on both sides of the fence, from the people who saw it best – those perched uncomfortably on said fence.
“And how, exactly, do you account for the lack of any of the prominent voices of the Comid Hierarchy amongst your prisoners? One would think that the surest way to a surrender, a favorable peace...” Another smirked, as if by not looking at Cole, he wouldn't be criticizing Cole.
Cole ate a cracker, and seemed to ruminate. “How often is it that the King rides out with the Academy Council?” He addressed his question to the air, but then directed his clear gaze to the others around him, slight confusion wrinkling his brow. “Ah, I seem to have forgotten – that's the purpose of the Council, to keep the realm safe, and the King from risking the government by death or capture. How silly of me...”
“A Republic, though – a republic of rebels,” the nobleman quickly returned, dropping the pretext of not having been addressing Cole, as anything less than pitched conversation would defeat him.
Cole finished his snack – something fishy. He didn't like fish that much, but it was a delicacy, so fishy-tasting things were always hiding about food trays, and he had trained himself to smile on tasting fishy things. “A set of rulers is a set of rulers, no matter what they call themselves. Remarkably enough, I don't find it strange that the army of a Republic, a republic of rebels, tries very hard to do its job, and safeguard its government. Though, of course, it is my fault... it was I, after all, and my two units of Elites that couldn't break through the Comid lines fast enough. Perhaps if I'd paid more attention when we bivouacked in the jungle at Academy, I wouldn't have found it so difficult to do, but then again, Academy is only four years, and perhaps it was fighting the fifth year of the war that so strained my abilities that I failed.”
“Wait, but – ... hear,” said one of the others. He solemnly raised his glass, chastised. “Hear hear, to a noble victory.”
The others all clinked in turn, the attacker's eyes down as he did so. Cole, keeping his own eyes easy and unperturbed, raised his glass, and tapped its rim against theirs. “Hear, hear.”
He smiled so gently. They all wished it had been easier, that more could have been done, didn't they? Would he raise his glass amongst enemies? Didn't it mean that, disagreements aside, they were friends, and countrymen?
Even Cole had difficulty working his feelings out about that one, but nobody really needed to know his feelings. He was just a stand-in, a rank, and while it was his business to defend the country, he would, even in conversation. Cole didn’t really like drinking, but there was reason to doubt that he could tolerate the ball without another glass to encourage indolence. Nika liked wine; he drank at parties and became more jocular, more friendly (he was friendly – it was just hard to see it), more active. Unlike Nika, Cole drank and grew calm and sleepy, and wanted quiet.
He took another glass, just because holding one was a good idea, and meandered towards the dark wall.
One thing that was nice about Royal Balls: food and drink simply appeared. A veritable company of servants was involved in keeping something edible always at the elbows of those who might want them, and shifting away just as often as the elbows did. Though the tradition of the Royal Ball had apparently begun as a sort of extended banquet, they had all but banished any form of table from the event, since the advent of set dancing. The groups of dancers, interchanging sides and partners, and occasionally, positions on the floor all together, required too much space for any section of the floor to be take up with tables, especially in the Gold Room, with its slightly sunken dance floor limiting usable space. The most artful and daring danced near the steps, taking the level-changes in stride. The wiser and less desperate let the artful and daring have at it.
Cole simplified matters by avoiding both steps and dance floor entirely. A few months away from the Capitol, and one's entire repertoire of dance steps became suddenly obsolete. Not that anything ever changed that much – there were only so many different sets, and so many different styles people could keep up with. A set with no partners was no fun. With keen observation, he could pick up a few new ones after a viewing or two.
On that premise, he took himself to the steps, and secured one of the wandering servants to his elbow by bribing him with a gold button off of his pocket. The Brigadier's uniform had fewer buttons than an Executive General's, but if anyone could pull off petty bribery at Royal Events, it was Cole.
“Attention, cadet!”
Cole's feet came together, and he almost straightened up, before the gravelly, mirthless old laugh put him at ease again.
“Tits, Ghent – like to give me a heart-attack!”
“More like to have one myself,” Ghent grumbled, voice like rocks falling down an escarpment. “Can't fault me for having a bit of a turn-around on you – after all, it's I who's mostly got to listen to you these days.”
The old man hobbled to him, weight shifting from leg to leg as if his knees no longer bent. He rested himself against the pillar behind them, obliging Cole to take a few steps back, and took something brightly hued and on a cracker off the servant's tray.
Ghent had been old for as long as Cole had known him, but his body seemed finally to be catching up to him. His brown face sagged on one side more than the other, and the white in his beard grew closer to translucent every year. On top of that his joints only seemed to be getting worse, which mean his already large frame had begun to weigh more heavily than ever; on the whole it was like watching an iced cake melt in summer heat. Only, of course, the iced cake was like an irascible but dear old uncle melting to pieces before his eyes. Made it slightly less apt a metaphor.
“Didn't quite expect to see you here,” Ghent said, sighing heavily.
“I could say the same – or does a dance appeal to you yet?” Cole raised his brows, and Ghent shook his head.
“There's just not enough of the bloody army here that I could stay home, is what. Oh sure, cavalry arrived weeks ago, they're always either too early or too late, and the clerks never left – they bloody won't, even if you ask – but without the Council here...”
“Any idea when they're supposed to arrive?” Cole asked. On the face of it, his tone was merely questioning, but Ghent was too familiar to bother disguising himself too much.
The old man laughed, sucking on his teeth. Most of the bottom ones had fallen out – last time Cole had seen him, he had been using his blackened smile to scare city children who dared test their bravery by approaching the 'old oak of the Academy'. He let out another sigh.
“Tomorrow, at the earliest. I sent a runner myself to hurry them along,” Ghent said, voice a hollow rumble. “I didn't believe it was true.”
Cole didn't doubt what 'it' was. If Ghent was like Cole’s uncle, then to Nika, he was more like a grandfather.
Nika never minded trouble from the ollamh or officers at Academy, but the one time Cole had earned them both a rebuke from Ghent, Nika had been furious – with Cole. Then, when his father disowning him left Nika nowhere to go during the breaks, he stayed at the Academy. Despite living in the same city, Cole found himself bargaining for Nika’s time – he would be helping Ghent, or have plans with Ghent, or for any number of other reasons had promised his time to the old man. Frustrated, Cole had said it was the first time he had been stood up in favor of an old man. Nika, being Nika, had laughed at him, and accused him of jealousy. Cole had very nearly gotten truly angry with him. They made up in the usual way.
Cole took a glass from the servant's tray, putting down his empty one.
“And how are you, lad?” Ghent asked. “Holding up?”
Cole shot him a smile, taking a drink from his glass. “'When thinking on the court's affairs/ It's best one thinks on courtly airs'.”
“Empty-headed you mean,” Ghent snorted, then gave an eerie chuckle, made more sinister by his lack of teeth. “That's it, boy. You show them. Though demoting yourself is a funny way to do it.”
“Heard about that, did you?” Cole glanced at Ghent, whose gaze was witheringly doubtful. He shrugged. “It was the thing to do. Anyway, my replacement has my fullest confidence.”
“Ha,” Ghent grumbled. “Never did fathom your tactics. Though I did get an earful of your successor's grabbing Hammerlyn's nuts on the royal dais.”
Ghent's laugh was loud and brackish enough that several of the nearby lords and ladies scattered at the sound, fearing the old coot would explode. Cole allowed himself a rare vicious smile.
“I suspect he got a handful,” Cole said, sipping his wine.
“I doubt it,” Ghent's laughing caused a coughing fit, which only served to make his last uncouth statement louder rather than harder to hear. “But he sure did give 'em a tug.”
Mortification, and giggling, cut the barren circle around them a little wider. Cole grinned into his glass. There were definitely some things he missed about these gatherings. Ghent's uniform inappropriateness was one.
While Ghent excused himself to cough beside the pillar, Cole kept a sharp survey out on the floor. Though he had masked his entrance by not going through the door, and thus being officially announced, walking across the hall had sent out a wave of awareness of his presence – just the way he liked it. Anyone waiting for him would be obliged to seek him out by following the ripples, by which he would know they specifically sought him – forcing the opponent into an attack. Not many people could deliberately sneak up on him, like Ghent (who had the unfair advantage of being sufficiently unfriendly for no one to bother to greet or notice him unless they had to, thus masking his approach), or could fake a genuine surprise well enough to fool him.
The guests of honor would already be here: everyone from the dais at presentation, anyone the Prince currently decided matched his shoes, anyone above the rank of Major within reach of invitations or so spangled with medals that their puffed chests could deflect arrows – and poor, unfortunate Guy. He really had done a wonderful job at presentation. Especially with Hammerlyn.
Hammerlyn. There was no way Cole could hurry the Prince along; his business would come when it would come, probably with as much annoyance as he could muster, which was a considerable amount. Cole's whole 'sneaking in' thing, while a wise tactic, was also pleasing, as it thwarted giving the Prince an exact idea of how long he could make Cole wait before addressing their business. Hammerlyn, though – another story entirely. Cole could find him, and tear him to pieces, at his leisure.
As Cole's rank had risen, so had his level of privilege to the various personal disagreements between the upper tiers of Academy officers. He knew exactly what Ghent's general opinion of Hammerlyn was, but he was behind on the specifics.
“Since we're on the subject, Ghent–” Cole stared over the floor, eyes empty of focus, “what do you think of General Hammerlyn?”
The old man cocked a brow at him, with a grunt. By way of response, Cole narrowed his eyes and took a sip of wine. Ghent raised his heavy brows further and made a gesture that Cole had only seen performed by prostitutes when displeased with customers, and at which those left of the ladies nearby issued little squeals of indignation and scattered (an action Cole was certain they hadn't thought through, as it implied they had seen such gestures performed, and understood them. He made a few mental notes).
There was a reason the Council usually made sure to spare everyone Ghent's attendance at social functions. The Executive General would've seen it as part of his duty to keep Ghent's misbehavior to a minimum, but the Brigadier was blissfully bereft of that responsibility.
“I’m growing into that opinion myself,” Cole said. “I underestimated him. His hatred of Nika is strong enough he would kill a few hundred soldiers over it – Ainjir soldiers, that is. I have to assume he hated the Comids enough to do that anyway.”
“Don't know why,” Ghent growled. “Pays for their company often enough. He's been preaching to the kneelers for years now. Only got worse over the war.”
Cole took a moment to digest that over a sip of wine he didn't quite swallow.
Hearing that phrase again brought him back. 'Preaching to the kneelers' was a frequent innuendo murmured to Cole Second Year, when he and Nika firmly established their relationship amongst the other cadets. 'Kneelers' were, of course, Midraeics, known for their public worship, and thus, to be preacher was to be the man standing in front of the one kneeling, presumably 'dispensing good teaching'. He had gotten the brig once for beating another cadet half to death over the phrase; at the time he had told Nika it was because of some other slight.
“Oh?” Cole finally said, voice light and aimless as a spring breeze.
Ghent nodded. “Treats 'em bad enough they don't like to come back. Had to send out a message to the Families that he couldn't bring them on the grounds anymore. Was giving the Academy a bad reputation – and a bad reputation among a profession that we can't afford to have bad trade with, lad.”
“How did you find out?”
Ghent gave him a gap-toothed smile. “Never married, for one, and the night-ladies gossip. Not that I'm much good to them, anymore, but the ladies treat me, or my coin, kindly enough anyway. Plus, I know everyone who comes through the gates. Couldn't leave all the security to Hammerlyn, what with him being a git. Can't do much about it, but at least nobody gets on my grounds without me knowing.”
Nodding, Cole covered his silence with another long sip of wine. Cole was familiar, too, with prostitutes, especially the Families around the Capitol. Between the burning out of his relationship in Prep and the beginning of his serious courtship of Nika during Second Year, he had had plenty of time to gather debts that way. Midraeic prostitutes could make good money just on their status as somewhat exotic – with a little bit of forced recollection, Cole could recall paying extra for the privilege once himself (although the great rarity of male Midraeic prostitutes had probably had something to do with the expense).
“Must've gone broke – paying for company that doesn't like you is expensive enough, but paying for a different color, as well?”
“Had collectors come,” Ghent grumbled, his fury obvious in that his great bushy brows seemed not so much to obscure his sharp eyes as to inflame them. “Collectors! Towing Midraeic Sons and their noisy Mothers, screaming indignities at the gates! I'll tolerate a lover's spat – even a paid lover's spat – by the Four Rosy Cheeks of Passion, boy, I tolerated plenty of yours – but a debt collector pounding on an Academy officer's door I will not tolerate!”
Cole had stopped pretending to drink wine. His face was calm, his eyes still only vaguely focused on the interchanging couples on the dance floor. Ghent's outburst leaned on the edge of a precipice of rage; he shouted his last as if informing everyone even remotely near of his tolerances. Quickly, Cole drained his glass, setting it empty on the servant's tray before he spoke.
“So, tell me, Ghent,” he repeated, in almost the same directionless tone, “what do you really think of General Hammerlyn?”
Ghent's rheumy eye squared on him in question. Searching about his person, Cole found another nice, shiny, large gold button, and prying it loose of its moorings, put it on the servant's tray. He nodded to Ghent, who favored him with a horrible, black-toothed smile.
What issued out of the 'old oak of the Academy' was, by volume, worse than any diseased phlegm the old man had ever hacked out of his lungs. Probably took longer too. Cole couldn't judge, as he stayed just enough to point a few in the crowd towards the ever-entertaining spectacle of a guest of honor getting himself a new asshole torn by a 'drunk' old man who knew too many secrets, but that button was worth at least thirty minutes worth of keeping Ghent in drinks to go on. Plus, getting kicked out of the Gold Room like a brawling young cadet would make Ghent's night.
Cole disappeared into the flowing masses, handing out bashful smiles to strangers until he could be certain he was far enough away from anyone who would recognize him as the one encouraging Ghent to get away with slandering a Guest of Honor by proxy. It wouldn't fool Hammerlyn, but it wasn't meant to.
From his wall he bounced through the crowd from polite avoidance to polite avoidance, until he was within the safe reach of the music. There was a lessening of the crowd around the little box which kept the orchestra, it being uncouth and destructive of the artistry to stand too close to musicians when making music. Those that made up the light edge were also silent, which was what Cole wanted – either too pensive or asocial to move into the deeper crowd – or, he supposed, actually interested in listening. They gave him little smiles and nods, a few shyly blushed with recognition, but other than that, he was left quietly alone to listen himself.
Here he watched the masses move, the mesmerizing rise and fall of bows across the strings and the glitter of horns like the rise and fall of the pale arms of dancers and the glitter of their jewelry. Here he could pleasantly indulge in the thoughts of the masses of people, not as individuals, but as a species, one not dominant but simply as prevalent as rock pigeons or dairy cows. He wasn't apt to like such thoughts except that it helped dilute his anger against them, helped make his understanding spread over all the various individual slights and annoyances. Nika dealt with each person as they came so he liked, and was liked, by few. Cole softened the blow of individuality with the broadness of categories.
Fuck but nothing was going to make him stop thinking of Nika, and every thought of Nika hurt like blazes.
Just about when he was starting to entertain thoughts of departure, he spotted it, at the corner of his eye. A little man in a livery of red and black, like a ladybug snuck into the gold-plated room. The Prince's coterie spread much farther than most people realized – this was the scout to hunting party, who marked the resting prey. Cole sipped his wine and gave a banal smile to the music, gaze spreading out over the surroundings like mist.
Suddenly there broke a fit of bowing and curtsying off to his right, and his smile was no longer banal. Guy bustled through, looking at each new bow as if it were some strange form of potential attack, madly passing off salutes to everyone he could. Upon seeing that Cole saw him, his face broke with obvious relief – not a gesture Cole would've encouraged, but amusing, for sure – and he abandoned trying to acknowledge all the flattery in favor of striding as quickly over to Cole as he could.
“Oh, honor-and-glory, sir – I think I've screwed everything up; I don't know what to do,” Guy hissed, nervously wiping his face.
Cole smiled at him, surveying the little chain of people that had floated after him, disrupting the quiet edge. “Guy, take a deep breath.”
Guy took a deep breath.
“To our great new General,” Cole raised his glass, earning a 'hear, hear' or seven and several other raised glasses and a general set of applause which he used to mask his words to Guy. “You're doing fine. You haven't messed anything up.”
“People keep following me. You didn't tell me there'd be people following me constantly,” Guy whispered back anxiously. “And I don't think I'm making a very good impression.”
Cole glanced into the crowd, and a smile bolted across his face. “You're making a fine impression – excellent even. But listen: talk to Major-General Ghent about visitors to the Academy if the logs dry up on you.”
The best way to shore up Guy’s confidence would be to remind him he was in the middle of a job, and his demeanor improved markedly.
“But, what do you think–” Guy stared to say.
The clapping had died down some, and Cole's genial smile enforced Guy's silence. Guy was doing fine. Guy was actually doing more than fine, but he didn't fault the man for not noticing how fine he was really doing. He pretended Guy was saying something amusing, and smiled to him. Then he turned his smile to the Lady-in-Waiting, hiding amongst the others the way a cut diamond can hide amongst shattered glass, and nodded to her. With the very slightest of curtsies and the most demure of knowing smiles, she thanked Cole, eyes carefully cast down as she approached. No telling how long she had been waiting to be recognized as Guy tried to flee his newfound fame.
“My most Honorable General,” she said, pulling the sort of deep curtsy that only dancers and the attendants of the Royal Family could, her yellow sash (in deference to her Lady's state of mourning) hanging within an inch, yet not touching the ground.
Guy turned, and Cole himself could've applauded, the sudden cool control that spread over his face. “Yes, my Lady?”
“May I humbly convey the wishes of my mistress, the Princess Aodhnait, that you come into her presence to be thanked for your venerable service to the nation. She would be most pleased to have your company.”
Cole didn't quite control his ribald smile. The Lady-in-Waiting didn't quite keep her lip from smirking in response. Guy, who didn't quite know what to do, missed most, if not all of it.
“Er... Well, yes – I mean, yes, of course, I would be honored, and am honored by the invitation.”
Going to the side of the Lady-in-Waiting, he looked back at Cole as if going to his execution. Cole grinned at him, and got to see his face fall into confusion before the gaggle of royal camp-followers disappeared with him towards the back of the hall.
Cole felt the prickle of company at his elbow, and kept from turning until his pause indicated perfect nonchalance.
He hadn't the slightest idea whose smiling face greeted him, but he didn't need to know – all he needed was the livery, and the graceful bow as he swept himself away like a curtain.
Cole took a step back and issued a deep bow. “Your Highness. Prince Diarmaid,” he added – to recall to them both when the Prince had once insisted upon familiar address.
“King Diarmaid,” the Prince said, smiling back at Cole. He raised a hand, and the music ground to an awkward halt, the company giving a general gasp, as black banners fell from the ceiling, obscuring the Ox of the King in shadow.
“The King is dead,” said Diarmaid, casual smile on his face. “Long live the King.”