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Naesala tries to send the messenger away. "Not a king anymore!" he shouts, as the purple-robed hawk spirals down, straight toward the high perch in Serenes where Naesala had just been starting to doze. "Pass it along to the new one. Not my problem."
The hawk pauses, hovering. "But it's addressed to Naesala...?"
Naesala sighs. He snatches the envelope from the messenger's hands, scans the front of it, and points: "See? It has 'King' right there in the center."
But Naesala doesn't hand it back. The handwriting's giving him pause. King Naesala in huge, ornate, and utterly atrocious lettering. Certainly Naesala has plenty of confidantes who are barely literate—fine lettering isn't the highest priority in Tellius's underworld—but this is the handwriting of someone who actually tried. Tried and failed, which means it's not some hoity-toity dignitary, and not a smuggler either, which leaves... who, exactly?
He casts the hawk a sidelong glance, flips the envelope over, and tears it open:
King Naesala! Been a while since the war, huh?
You won't believe the good news: I'm getting married!
(Makalov is right. Naesala doesn't believe it.)
We got engaged just this week. Date of wedding TBD.
So, you should come to my stag night in Sienne next month. It'll be great. I even convinced Geoffrey to come.
-Makalov
PS: No need to keep sending debt collectors after me! I'm good for the money. If you'd ever come visit in Crimea I can explain everything.
When Naesala's done reading, he glances up to find the hawk perched next to him. Naesala tilts his head. "Well? You've done your duty, now off with you."
The hawk coughs. "Payment is due on receipt."
Goddess above. Of course Makalov would punt off even the price of one measly letter onto someone else. Naesala rolls his eyes, pulls a coin from his pocket, and flicks it toward the hawk. "Cheers."
The hawk stays put. "The beorc sent it express, actually. Fee's double."
Double the interest on Makalov's tab, then. Naesala flicks another coin.
And as Naesala watches the hawk wing away, the most uncanny thought occurs to him—he could go.
Sure, Makalov's a nothing thoroughly-unnoble nobody, one of those drawn-to-trouble louts who was constantly peppering him with conversation as they marched toward the Tower of Guidance a year ago.
But as of three weeks ago, Naesala is also a nothing thoroughly-unnoble nobody. And all he's done so far is skulk around, tug at Tibarn's tailfeathers, and generally make a nuisance of himself. May as well make a nuisance of himself elsewhere, before Reyson has a go at him.
He turns the letter over in his hand. He's got no clue what a "stag night" is, though he likes the sound of it. He's watched beorc nobles on their foxhunts before, gilt with finery as they galloped over the hills, all the majesty of a hunt with half the blood. Maybe a stag night's the same, but with proper quarry—and Naesala could use an excuse to flex his wings. Tear his talons into some young buck. Show the rest of them how it's done. Work off whatever's left of his kingly vigor.
He wings his way out of Serenes before nightfall.
But a stag night, as it turns out, is not a hunt.
"The Peacock," Naesala says, as they're standing steps from the gaping maw of its entrance, with six different garish colors of witchlights hanging around them. "We're going to The Peacock. On purpose."
"Don't say it like that," Makalov whines. "They fixed things up all nice after that fire two years back. It's classy-like, now. Fit for a pair of kings, eh?"
Makalov slaps Naesala's back. Naesala bristles.
"And you say this is all to celebrate your—impending nuptials?" The other four all nod; apparently they'd all known it wasn't a hunt. "Seems to somewhat defeat the point of the institution, if you're just going to bed a bunch of whores anyway—"
"There won't be any prostitutes," one of them pipes up, immediate—the blue-haired one, Elincia's little stick-in-the-mud. What was his name again? Jeff? George? Goddess, sometimes Naesala hated keeping track of beorc names.
Beside him, Bastian chuckles. (That name's easy enough to remember. Spies know their own.) "Does Kilvas lack any similar occasion?" Bastian asks, tilting his chin toward Naesala. "I'd have thought the ravens would scarcely miss an occasion to celebrate the finer things in life."
"Our whole business is living well. We'd hardly confine that to some premarital trifle." Naesala shrugs. "And anyway our weddings aren't half so elaborate as what you get up to. Far as I can tell, you beorc nobles use them to tie nooses around each other's necks."
"And she is a very noble girl," Bastian adds with a wink.
Makalov, improbably, perks up. "Right! Exactly. Big wedding calls for a big party."
"Passing strange, though," Bastian continues, "that I first heard of it through your letter. I supped with House Damiell not even a fortnight ago and there was nary a mention of the happy occasion."
"Ahh, well, her parents, uh." Makalov scratches the back of his neck. "They're still getting used to me, see."
Naesala and Bastian trade looks over Makalov's head.
"Fear not!" (Naesala winces; the red-headed one is loud.) "Before long they too will be SHOUTING the name of Crimean Royal Knight Fifth Platoon Private Makalov!" And then the man's hustling them all through the front door.
Makalov's right about one thing: The Peacock did fix things up nicely. Last time Naesala was here, his boots kept sticking to the floor from all the spilled beer; now it's so clean he can actually see the tiling. And the old gambling-tables in the back have been replaced with sleek new hardwood, each attended by some slickly-uniformed improbably-handsome young thing—
—and the clientele's been upgraded to match, he notes. Lots of brightly-dyed jackets and ornately-feathered hats. Lots of Sienne new money about to be parted from said new money.
Beside him, Makalov jabs a friendly elbow into his side. "So, Naesala, how about you and me try a few hands of Queens? I think I spot a few easy marks at that table over there."
Naesala raises a brow. "What marks? You mean you?"
"Aw, c'mon, don't say that. Lady Luck's on my side today, I just know it."
It takes a moment for Naesala to realize the man's completely in earnest—that, right, people do still believe in a thing like luck—and he actually laughs. "Fine. I'll come along." He casts a glance backward, where the others have gathered around a table, and the red-haired one's holding two pitchers of ale, and Naesala's got a fleeting hunch—
"Keep the blue-haired one away from the drinks," he mutters to Bastian, and turns to follow Makalov to the cards.
Three hours later, Makalov is properly drunk. Which is an improvement, Naesala thinks. Before that, Makalov kept going on about how many easy marks there were, how his new card-counting scheme was sure to carry the day, and anyway Lady Luck was certain to be with him tonight of all nights.
He kept blathering like that even while coin trickled out of him like stuffing out of cheap taxidermy.
"I'm not fronting you," Naesala had warned, as Makalov went all-in on a hand riddled with twos and threes. "Particularly if you blow it all on a spread like that."
Makalov looked around the table, frantic—then noted, with relief, that none of the other card sharks had overheard—so he turned back to whine: "But it's my stag night. Everyone knows the the groom doesn't pay on his own stag night."
Oh. There was an easy mark here, as it turned out out: Naesala himself. Him and the other attendees of this sorry little affair. He considered leaving then: wing away to an establishment with an actual sense of class, salvage the rest of his night. That, or he could add this these coins to Makalov's already-considerable tab, and finally start calling in all that interest he's been letting slide for the better part of a year.
But—there was a sort of fun, watching this beorc while away his coin with such naked eagerness. More fun to be had anywhere else in this city, anyway; he's never cared much for Sienne.
So Naesala opted to buy Makalov in for the next round—and for as many drinks as the man cared to drink.
Which brings them to now, many rounds of Queens and ale later, with Makalov far too drunk to care a whit for cards. After he drops his hand a few times ("these things are so fiddly"), Naesala leads him briskly away to the billiards room.
"Hey, you two want to play a game?" a short beorc shouts from over one of the tables. Naesala looks the beorc over. He's grinning hugely, leaning against his cue stick. Based on his swagger, he might be as plastered as Makalov is. "Just one game, just for funsies."
Beside the beorc, a beanpole-thin cat laguz watches for their answer—two versus two, then.
"Certainly," Naesala says with a grin, grabbing the nearest cue stick.
Spend enough time in seedy parlors and you tend to get the knack for games like this. Makalov's dreadful—can't seem to decide how he'd like to hold the cue stick, keeps flopping too far forward onto the table—but Naesala's good, hitting his every shot with ease. Between the two of them, it averages to a tidy victory.
The short man gives an aw-shucks grin, scratching the back of his neck. "You're pretty good," he says, voice thick with honey. "How about we make things more interesting next go-round?"
He brandishes coins. A lot of coins.
Naesala's eyes narrow. He knows this play. "We're being hustled," he whispers in Makalov's ear. "Let's go. Now."
"Again!" Makalov shouts, throwing down his own fistful of coins.
"Ashera's tits." Naesala casts the short beorc a baleful look.
Which the beorc cheerfully ignores. "Alright! Second game!" He claps his hands together. "Time for a real match."
Shooting Makalov one last glare, Naesala gathers the balls into the starting triangle. He lets Makalov shoot the opening shot.
And Makalov's still drunk, except now he's... good? Lands two shots in a row, just like that, one at an angle that even Naesala would've struggled with.
The other duo's good too, though, now that they're actually playing. They're keeping pace, never more than a ball behind.
The next time Makalov's turn comes around, he's wibbly. He squints at the table like it's an eye chart, blinks, then wobbles toward Naesala. "Nae-nae," he whispers, "what should I do?"
"What should you—" He gives an irritated snort. The lean laguz is snickering. And Makalov's looking positively earnest.
Naesala sighs, and suggests (with the air of a man forced to choose which gun the firing squad will be using): "The fourteen ball's a clear shot. Hit that one."
Which Makalov proceeds to do. Decisively. A perfect hit, shooting straight into the proper pocket.
The short beorc spits out his drink.
Makalov looks up at Naesala, blinking. "What next?"
Well. If that's how they're going to play. Naesala crosses to the other side of the table and points at a red ball: "This one. Hit it right here and it'll bounce straight into that other one and knock it in."
The shot works. Another fluke, Naesala thinks—at first. But after Makalov lands balls two, four, three, and four under Naesala's guidance, Naesala concedes that this is some kind of gift, the kind of momentary blessing that gets people talking about Lady Luck.
Naesala's reminded, very suddenly, of some trifle his friend Rausu had told him, decades ago, when they'd been rowdy and fresh-fledged—something about the perfect state of insobriety, right before you've had too much, when you actually get better at parlor games and the like...
Goddess. He hasn't even thought about Rausu in how many years? He smiles despite himself.
The game's end is a decisive victory for team Naesala-Makalov. All the honey's drained from the short beorc's voice now: "Again," he grunts, and throws out more coin. His lean companion's scowling behind him.
"No," Naesala says, thinking quit while we're ahead—but Makalov shouts his "yes" from over the top of a pint. Wait, a pint? When had he gotten that? Naesala had whispered at the barmaid to stop bringing those, lest Makalov topple over entirely—
The skinny one's already resetting the table. Naesala sighs, raking a hand though his hair. Another game, fine. Easy come, easy go.
And it is mostly going, for the first half of the round. The liquor's catching up to Makalov. He blows two different shots entirely, vaulting the cue ball into the air. Naesala does what he can to make up the difference, and meets the other two's sneering looks with his best shit-eating grin.
So when the other two are only one ball away from winning, and Naesala and Makalov are down by four, and it's Makalov's turn to play, Naesala figures it's over. And good riddance; he's getting tired of staring at this table anyway.
And yet that's exactly when Makalov, some twenty sheets to the wind, lands a trick shot that sinks three balls and then the eight-ball, right in that order, quick as fire, winning the game in a single stroke.
Everyone's staring at Makalov. Makalov's staring at the table. "Wait," Makalov says, blinking, uncertain, "where'd the last ball go...?"
Ridiculous. "You sank it," Naesala says. "Congrats. We won. Game's over."
"Oh! Great! Well, then." Makalov holds a hand out to the other two, expectant. "Pony up."
The shorts man crosses his arms. "Cheats. Both of you."
Naesala laughs. "Believe me, if we could cheat this well we'd take our talents someplace nicer than the damn Peacock."
The short one's scowl deepens. He hands over a pile of coin.
But then Naesala notices that the skinny cat's slunk away to confer with someone in the far corner. A very tall someone, a man wearing all black, with eyes like a hawk. And both of them are staring straight at Makalov.
Naesala stiffens. He knows that look.
"C'mon, Mr. Lady Luck," Naesala hisses in Makalov's ear, grabbing him by the shoulder, digging his fingers in with enough force to make the man yelp. "We're going. Now."
Makalov goes along with him, easy enough. But as soon as they're outside, the whining starts.
"Why are we leaving?" Makalov slurs, stumbling a little into Naesala (Naesala reaches out a hand to right him). "We were winning, why—"
"Because," Naesala hisses, right in his ear so there's no chance of mishearing, "I caught one of our opponents making eyes with the pit boss. Which means he was not just some lone hustler but part of the house, and even you ought to know enough to realize that the house always wins. One way or another." Naesala pulls him around a street corner, than another. There's only half a chance they'll be able to lose their tail, but, worth trying anyway.
Makalov opens his mouth, doubtlessly to say something stupid, but just then, a huge shadow emerges in front of them: "Hey. You've got something of ours."
Now this man is more like the Peacock that Naesala remembers—sweating and filthy, with beady little eyes and huge, huge arms. They must keep their enforcers in the back these days.
"Hey," Makalov says, then has to pause and swallow and squint his eyes like he's thinking hard. But all he comes up with is: "We won those games fair 'n' square."
So Makalov's a belligerent drunk. Grand. Just what Naesala needs. Naesala throws a brotherly arm over Makalov's shoulder, slaps his back, and gives beady-eyes his best aw-shucks self-effacing smile: "My friend here's drunk, I'm afraid. We were just heading home. Let us through?"
It doesn't work, of course, but it at least draws the other goons out. Naesala doesn't have eyes in the back of his head, much as he's been accused of it before—he tilts his head just so, and picks out the figures in his periphery. He counts them twice so that he doesn't miss any. Six. Six grunts for just two pests. Must be a slow night at the Peacock.
Naesala folds his wings against his back, pressing them down so hard the muscles ache. Safest spot for them. He'd rather they grab an arm or a leg or even his neck before letting them snap a wing.
The first punch comes for Makalov. Makalov staggers backwards, and then the second punch has him on his knees. Down that easy, huh.
Naesala, being sober and considerably more talented than the least of these humans, dodges the first three blows meant for him. When a kick finally finds his shin, he lets out a yowl, hamming it up, even though it's only a glancing blow.
Then, as a punch lands on his ribs, he tosses a coinpurse onto the ground. One of the goons falls on it, and pockets it with a grin, without so much as a glance at the contents.
Good, Naesala thinks. The trick is to let them think they sure showed them, let them think they shook them down for all the coins they had. If they'd fled straightaway, that'd only encourage the chase. But let them gloat, let them get a couple hits in, and then—
Naesala shifts. Half of the goons stagger back, but the other half square their stances and aim to hit even harder. This is trickiest bit, spotting and dodging while also shifting, while every bit of bone andskin that Naesala has is twisting into something new. He mostly manages it, save for a sucker punch to his shoulder that makes him squawk—
—but then he's full raven, huge and ferocious. With a lunge, he grabs Makalov by the shoulders and pumps his wings, hard, harder, as hard as he can—
—and then they're aloft. Flying, as it turns out, is easy—it's the taking off that's awful.
But they're up, and no throwing-knives come after him, which is good. A fall from this height would be dead-for-sure for Makalov, and not great for Naesala, either. He lifts higher, until they're a solid story above the nearest roof, then shoots straight north.
Makalov's heavier than any heron. Naesala flies until his wing-muscles start to spasm from the strain, then pushes himself a block further than that, just for good measure, and even that's nearly too far—he does not land so much as collapse onto the roof of the nearest building.
He falls back into human shape, exhausted. Makalov is sprawled not two feet away. For a moment the two of them just lie there. Panting, faces pressed against roof-tiles, and aching all over.
"I could've died," Makalov says, at length, with slow-dawning horror. Then, again, with considerably faster, higher-pitched horror: "Goddess above, I could've died." Then he gets all melancholy about it, because of course he does, going on like, "Poor Makalov, dead in an alley with no one to find him—"
"What about that girl of yours?" Naesala asks, voice bone-dry. "Surely she'd come find you."
"Oh—right." Makalov stammers a bit, the recovers: "My poor fiancée. Can you imagine how awful that'd be, if she found me struck dead in the middle of Sienne? It would be—it would break her heart I imagine—"
"Oh, shut up," Naesala snaps, too tired to lift his head. "You're not getting married. You haven't even asked her."
Makalov shuts up.
"What a ridiculous lie, by the way. If you wanted wingmen for some trashy night out on town, that's sensible enough, why not just say so—"
"Well otherwise who would come?" Makalov's voice isn't belligerent anymore. It's something else, something that even Naesala winces to hear. "I don't really have many friends left who aren't... trying to break my knees in over some debt or another. But people have to come out for a stag night." He makes a strange sound, deep in his throat, like he's about to puke, but manages to swallow it down. "The Tower of Guidance was the last time I saw you 'n' the others. I just wanted to get you all back together."
If Makalov's looking for pity, he's talking to the wrong bird. Naesala's bristling every feather on his wings; he can't stand hearing talk like this. But this man isn't one of his; he can't just dismiss him from service, or order him away, or have him dragged into some cell to get over himself. Naesala can't do that to—anyone, anymore, he realizes belatedly.
No longer a king. Just some commoner, lying on a rooftop next to a penniless drunk.
So when Makalov mutters, "Thanks for coming out here," Naesala accepts the gratitude, too tired to snark. And when Makalov leans forward like he's about to say something important, makes a noise like a cat coughing up a hairball, and—oh, hell—
"My boots," Naesala shouts, as Makalov retches up that night's dinner, and Naesala jerks his feet away just a little too late.
The whole group has a huge room at the Laughing Hen, just down the road. By the time Naesala finally manages to bring Makalov over there (half-carrying, half-dragging), the other half of the party's already there.
"Well met," Bastian says, with a rueful little wave.
In front of Bastian, passed out on the floor, is the blue-haired fellow. "Lincia," the man mutters vaguely, and turns over.
Naesala, still standing in the doorway, raises a brow. "I told you not to let him near the drinks."
"Touché, my feathered friend." Bastian's frowning as he looks down at the man. "Ordinarily he truly is the stolid sort. I never imagined a few drinks would make him so... moony."
"It's the stolid sorts you have to watch out for." Naesala takes a step forward and prods blue-hair's side with the tip of his boot. "Hope 'letting it all out' is good for him at least." He glances around: "And where's the other one? What's-his-name?"
"Still at the card tables, having an absolute tear of good fortune." Bastian's grinning again. "He can take care of himself, I think."
"Someone's got to. Here." Makalov's leaned against his shoulder, only barely conscious. With a huge gesture, Naesala pulls him into the room, and then half-lugs, half-tosses the man toward Bastian, prompting Bastian to rise. Together, the two of them haul Makalov into a bed and set him on his side.
Within minutes, Makalov's snoring loud enough to rattle the bedposts. So that's sorted, at least. Naesala sighs, collapses backwards into the overstuffed armchair across from Bastian, and shakes out his wings.
Bastian eyes the bruise that's already creeping down Naesala's jawline. "Looks like you had a night." He proffers a glass: "A drink?"
Naesala eyes the liquid skeptically. He doesn't care for the glint in Bastian's eyes. "I haven't got anything worth loosening my tongue over, you know. My time as king is over. Not a state secret left in me."
"Hmm," Bastian says, his smile deepening. "Then Serenes must have access to deeper magics than I imagined. If they truly wiped your memory entirely the moment you stepped down... pray tell more?"
Naesala makes a tsch sound. Was he ever this annoying? back when he was king, prying and plying what he could out of every senator, servant, and soldier he crossed paths with? always looking for that bit of blackmail, that scrap of information that would give his kingdom an edge? Small wonder everyone hated Kilvas. Someone else's problem now, at least.
He doesn't accept the drink. Bastian shrugs, easy come, easy go, and patters on about this and that.
And not that Naesala would pay attention anyway, but he definitely can't pay attention, not with Makalov's snores punctuating every tenth word, and not with his own shoulder still aching when he shifts his wing the wrong way. He still can't believe it, the ridiculous lie—come to my stag night, celebrate my marriage, me me me. A thin scheme to start with, and it only ended with him passed out before midnight anyway. Disgraceful. And, also, a little...
Naesala interrupts Bastian mid-sentence: "Keep an eye on the groom-to-be?" He jabs a thumb toward Makalov, already striding toward the window. "Shouldn't be long. Just something I need to take care of."
And then he throws the panes open, shifts raven, and is out before Bastian can say a word in return.
The next morning, Makalov wakes up with the kind of headache that means he either had an awful night or a great night. But he can't remember which, not right away.
Then he rolls over onto his side. Ow. Okay, with a bruise like that, probably a bad night, though he slept well enough, so—
He blinks, and Naesala's there. Right in his face, hovering over him. He nearly shouts; the man's looming like the scavenger he is in his bad dreams, black feathers everywhere, finally chasing him down to peck him to death for all those hundreds-he-owes-plus-interest—
"H-Hey, Naesala." He looks around the room. "Where're the others?"
"At breakfast." Naesala's eyes dart toward the door. "And the innkeeper's liable to kick us out in ten, so. We'd best join them soon."
And that's when Makalov reaches for his pocket, feels for the familiar jangle of coin, and—no. "The money," he groans, remembering all at once: the billiards match, the mugging in the alley, how narrowly they'd escaped. He reaches for his other pocket, then the other one hidden in his jacket, and nothing, nothing. "Those guys, augh, don't tell me they cleaned me out—"
"Please. They were amateurs." Naesala does a little slight-of-hand trick, moving a gold piece between his knuckles, then he flicks his wrist and there's a gray pebble there instead. "They got counterfeit. I snatched the real thing." He smiles, pocketing the pebble. "And while you were incapacitated, I took that real stuff..." He pulls something out of his other pocket. "...and turned it into this."
He's holding a ring. Makalov doesn't know much about jewelry, just that gems and gold are good, and this one's got plenty of both. Plus there's all these thin arcs etched along the band, which look nice, and also like they took a lot of work.
"It's a ring for your girl," Naesala continues. "And only for your girl." He fixes Makalov with a level stare. "I know every pawnbroker between here and Kilvas. If this turns up anywhere other than her hand, I'm sending over a scout to peck your eyes out."
"Okay." Makalov holds the thing gingerly, turns it over a few times while half-hoping it'll turn back into coin, tada, another little parlor trick. When no such thing happens, he asks: "And the rest of the winnings?" Silence. "All of it?"
"And it took every bit of that, to get a ring half as pretty as she is." When Makalov stares, Naesala rolls his eyes, impatient: "Yes, that's all of it, and a thank you would be in order. It took effort to find a jeweler willing to part with a decent ring for that price." When Makalov keeps staring, a dangerous note creeps into Naesala's voice: "You do love this girl, don't you?"
"Course I do," he answers, sulkily. "She's the greatest. Better than I deserve. Just... all I wanted last night was to cut loose a little."
"And I'd leave you to that," Naesala says, sharp, "if you knew how to enjoy it, but plainly you don't." He rouses his wings like he's shaking something off. "A whole night for debauchery and what do you do with it? Did I see you bedding any women, drinking good wine, singing stupid songs badly off-key with all your little compatriots? No, you drank too much and picked a stupid fight you shouldn't've and got all... mopey, before passing out and vomiting all over my boots."
Makalov swallows. "Sorry about that."
Naesala's right wing stiffens and twitches like he's batting away a fly. "Try the ring." He says it like it's an order. "Worst case scenario, she figures out you're a weasley good-for-nothing and abandons you inside a month."
Makalov winces. "Thanks for the vote of confidence." He turns the ring over. "And the best case scenario?"
"You make yourself into something worth her while." Then Naesala's eyes dart downward, and he's staring at his wrist as he says the next bit, even though Makalov doesn't see anything there, just his sleeves: "Some people need something worth rising to before they sort themselves out. So maybe you're one of them." Naesala shrugs, then, and stretches hugely. "Only one way to find out."
And Makalov would argue, then, except the next second Naesala's out the door. Or—out the window, rather. Goes straight toward the window and flies out of it.
Goddess, he envies the bird laguz their wings. The getaways he could make...
Then someone's rapping on the door, fast and angry. "Housekeeping! You were due out an hour ago, come on!"
Well. So that's the way it is. He glances around the room, and sees nothing of importance to grab, so. He squares his shoulders, pockets the ring, and makes his way out the door and back into the world.