My Pleasure, Darling

40: A Peasant Among Kings

"Miss Darling, come in, come in."

I didn't really have expectations. If I had to hazard a guess, I probably would have imagined some long throne room, where the air is deathly silent and a hundred courtiers down the sides of an aisle like a wedding of doom whisper gossip about you as you make your long way up to the throne.

If not that, then a spartan room like the Chancellor's.

This is nice. Large, roomy you might say, but comfortable. Deep red tones, from the wooden floors and rugs to the walls and the paintings. Lots of natural hues. There is a desk, lit with a small lamp, and there are a few lanterns dotted around, but most of the light is coming from the fireplace.

Why a fire is being burned in the middle of a sweltering summer is beyond me, but, okay.

King Marcius waves Simon away with a bare flick of his hand. Not like he's angry or anything, just like he has to do it twenty times a day and it gets boring. He's bent over a little table filled with beautiful crystal bottles, carved in different shapes and sizes, and crystal glasses to match. He's pouring himself something amber. "Can I offer you anything?"

"No thank you, your majesty."

"Are you sure?"

"Pain medication, sire. I should probably refrain."

"Oh. Right. Please, have a seat." He motions over to the triplet of leather couches behind him.

I remain bolted to my position by the door. For a few moments, I wonder why I don't move. Then I remember I'm a trained soldier, and at least by Lamyrian standards, I've also been trained how to act in the presence of royalty.

You don't sit in front of a King.

He eyes me, and smiles a little. "Please. I insist. I'm coming over in a moment."

Kings who insist might just go on a list of things that make me uncomfortable. Not anything he does, per se, but the idea of a King insisting feels like it's getting very close to a power imbalance that doesn't run in my favour. I gingerly sit on the very edge of the corner of one of the leather couches. When he is satisfied with his drink, he joins me, sitting on the couch directly opposite me. He takes a long drink.

"So. Plague."

I clear my throat. "My apologies, sire. I didn't mean to make a scene."

"Anybody who walks into any of my palaces with plague and a bullet in her leg is allowed to make a scene, believe me." He's very relaxed, this King, despite the suit he's wearing that cannot be comfortable this late at night when I know he's had it on for hours. He's spread out, arms wide. I suppose a King – especially a fit one – doesn't have to be mindful of the space he takes up. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yes, sire. Thank you."

"Good, good." He takes another sip of his drink. "I wanted to thank you again. For what you did for Alexandria."

"It was our honour, sire."

"None of that. You got plague for her. Took a bullet for her. You risked your life to see my niece safely to her family. Less than half the Royal Corpsmen in all of Lamyra would have had that kind of courage. And not only that, my wife has been exceedingly pleased since Alexandria's arrival. I have a lot to thank you for."

What do you say to that? I stare at the rug. It's all geometric shapes. Probably costs a fortune.

"Master Bruge told me about what you've been through. He spared no detail." Now I'm worried about what he's said. "I want you to know I'm very sorry about the Chancellor. He was a good man."