The Rat King

6

He is sitting at the head of the center table. Finally, after all these years: the Rat King, in flesh. Boidae is almost disappointed at how small he seems—when he was young and naïve he imagined the Rat King to be a force too terrible to look upon, but he has no issues with examining the almost ordinary man in front of him.

In fact, the only thing surprising in the king's features is the intensity of his dark eyes which latch on to his own. Emotionless, they regard one another, and a small spark of something momentarily flickers in in the Rat King's black depths before he turns to whisper in a serving-girl's ear.

Boidae's lips curl into a smile. Perhaps he is not so very disappointing after all.

The Chancellor makes introductions, Pavel bowing first, through he is nothing more than a servant. But they do not need to know that. Let them think he is the important one—Boidae will work magic of his own while Pavel works the magic of his tongue. They sit to the right of the Rat King, an honor, as Boidae is told by that fool of an 'Inquisitor.' The highest of honors.

Well, they should be honored.

"Where are you from?" He looks up from his plate to find the King watching. The question is obviously directed at him.

"I come from this part of the world, Your Grace." Boidae notices that he has not touched his food.

Is he truly as paranoid as they say?

"How every interesting," the king murmurs, though it is obvious he doesn't mean it. "I too come from hereabouts, though I suppose you already knew that."

"Indeed, I did, Your Majesty," he replies lightly. "I must admit I felt an immediate relief upon hearing I was to negotiate with a fellow countryman of sorts."

"You're from the southern European states?" the king demands sharply, and when Boidae affirms the statement he seems to relax. "What province?"

"Milan."

Those semicircles, peering out from translucent lids, flicker in and out of view; the thin lips below suddenly acquire a harsher line.

"And what is your thought on Milan's part in Charles VIII's war? I am quite interested to hear how a native justifies this."

It takes Boidae a moment to discern the seriousness of his question. It is almost comical, to hear such an old, musty question come from such a fresh face.

"That war was in 1494, my king. That was a long time ago."

"And?" the king snaps. "What of it? I believe you recall it, do you not? Or am I mistaken in believing you to be an experienced ambassador?"

"Of course I recollect the incident." It is difficult to keep the agitation out of his tone. Pavel's eyes are gallingly boring into his face, saying: Do not be insolent. Do not let him use your adolescence against you. Adolescence. What a word to use when describing a man who has seen more than a century of the world. But he is adolescent in this world of shadows, a fact they constantly bring up.

"Your Majesty—" The Inquisitor begins, but is silenced when the black eyes fall on him.

"I can answer the question, I assure you," Boidae says. "I merely question the relevance."

And as if some creature has flitted out of his face and scampered along the array of dishes and plates to Boidae, the king's gaze finds him.

"We are a product of the past," he says. "The tiniest drop of a pin changes the course of history. Everything is relevant."

There is silence. Boidae regards the king, distantly aware of how his esteem rises for that remote figure. "Pavel here originates from northern Russia." It is a sentence used to distract, and it does.