Aurelius: The Palace: Qemassen
A wet rat of a man with lank black hair and a beard so thick it looked like coal-painted coral stood before Aurelius and his table of counselors with the defiantly proud posture of someone a hundred times cleaner and significantly better dressed. Beside him, Fritha eq-Ifar might as well be an Ashqen of Ashtet.
Fritha had summoned the lot of them to the king's council chamber with what he'd claimed was significant news. From the look of things, it wasn't news Fritha hoped to impart, but lice.
The Loran—for it was obvious he was a Loran prisoner—stunk like he'd crawled straight from a sewer drain. It seemed a little late to ask for a ransom from his family. And what secrets could he have that would be of any use to Qemassen? The battle was over, if not the war, and whatever information the Loran had been privy to, it was out of date.
"Who is this man?" Aurelius set his gaze on Fritha. "And why should I care?"
For the first day out of countless others, Aurelius felt strangely himself―capable, affable, and as sure of himself as he was of the sunrise. The why of it—a drop of sapenta in the early hours of the morning—wasn't so happy a thing to dwell on, but perhaps it wasn't so important, either. Today was a good day to be a king. He had a plan for the future and for Qemassen. This impromptu meeting was an opportunity to show Hima he had as much of an interest in Qemassen's wellbeing as she did.
Fritha dared glare, which almost made Aurelius smile. "Varco Drenda, an admiral of the Lora navy."
Varco Drenda's clothes were so threadbare they might well be the ones he'd worn the day of the attack. He refused to meet Aurelius's gaze, head bowed. It was an oddly humble gesture when contrasted with the rest of his pose, and not one that advantaged Aurelius.
Aurelius's face was his best weapon, but what good was smiling at a man who wouldn't look at him?
"Drenda," Aurelius mused. "That's a noble name, is it not?" he continued in Lora. He'd just have to fight one-handed. A good thing his wit was ever as sharp as the cut of his jaw.
Hima turned to watch him. She'd never been a master of language, not like her brothers and sister.
"You speak our words well, Sese," Drenda replied in Massenqa. "If all our enemies were so clever, perhaps we would lose more battles."
"We're enemies, are we?" Aurelius cracked a smile, though with Drenda still making eyes at the floor, it was wasted.
Around the table, Aurelius's council watched both Drenda and each other with varying degrees of curiosity, distaste, and boredom.
Shaqarbas lounged, leisurely, on his seat, attention on Fritha, while Qanmi clasped his hands atop the table, sparing a subtle glance at Eshant. Hima's arms were crossed in front of her, expression defiant as she looked Drenda up and down. Titrit was absent, but Aurelius had taken the liberty of requesting her sister be present. Eshant sat beside her father, out of place amongst the fine flock of Semassenqa assembled in the room. Aurelius followed her gaze to its conclusion—the coin flitting between Fritha's fingers. Fritha was watching Varco, waiting for a response.
Everyone watching everyone else. They could have a contest to see who watched the hardest.
"I'm a militia man," Drenda answered. "I think you'll find our countries are at war. I believe that is the definition of what makes one your enemy. To some men, anyway."
Aurelius cocked his head to the side. "To you?"
Drenda's shoulder length mop of hair slipped in front of his face, neck still bent in deference. "My enemy in war, naturally."
