The Rat King

21

There are to be many celebrations during the stay of Aldéric. She can see the construction and preparation through the slivers and shafts of the creaking walls. The Head Inquisitor is running amok, flushed and fluttering with badly suppressed terror as his fleshy hands fumble through papers and slap his cherry forehead. Cook has already broken her fifth ladle. And then there is the quiet aftermath, when victory is evaluated and the damage assessed. The splintered wood, fractured jars and the whittled bones of the dead quickly labeled and disposed. Collateral damage.

But that is all forgotten when it becomes time to perform. The arrangements are ostentatious, the costumes expensive. The faces are painted with flesh and bone, thin veins spindling and coursing behind them, draining for fear, filling for embarrassment or drink.

The king's face is pink, the bridge and knob of the protruding nose the color of salmon or raw boar. The latter lays on the plate before him, the bulging and dazed eyes of its owner stare aimlessly from five feet away. One eye is firmly focused upon the Head Inquisitor who finds this flagrant staring offensive.

"This boar is from the southern Italian states," Aldéric states with mild interest. "Its skull is wider than its European counterparts."

The Rat King laughs. "When did you develop such a passion for pigs?"

"I have much time on my hands," he replies with a smile, "as you will soon begin to understand. And I find that it behooves one to know things, abet, they may usually be useless. But they do sometimes make very interesting conversation points, do they not?"

He addresses this to his left, in the general direction of a small girl who pays him no apparent attention. She holds a strand of blue beads in her hands, sometimes shifting a singular bead so that the concaved reflection provides a new insight.

"I would hardly call the origins of my boar interesting," the king answers with a similar smile. "I care not where the thing has been or what it has felt. And I have no interest in having too much time on my hands. Why else would I be so willing to join in this scheme of yours?" He leans back but his shoulders are kept in a tight line, no sense of leisure illustrated by the pose.

Aldéric inclines his head. "It is a noble pursuit."

"Noble? Hardly." He laughs this time, tapping fingers along the side of the table. "We stroll across Europe, kill a few people, swindle the rest. No, there is nothing noble about it. I do not claim to anything noble except," —and here he smiles yet again in a fit of malice-like humor— "my actions at Belgrade. Do you remember that, Aldéric?"

The mentioned smiles and nods again, his wispy hands curling around one another as he breaks etiquette and rests his elbows upon the table. "I remember very well."

"Whatever happened?" Boidae pries, abnormally curious.

There is a moment of viable tension when the king's face pinches and he stares out of the volatile stupor at him, but then he continues: "I was very young back then, and so was Aldéric, I would say."

"Not too young," Aldéric interjects but remains smiling.

"Young enough," the king asserts. "We were both young enough to not know right from left or wrong and proud enough not to admit it. At that point, I had just made a name for myself and Aldéric here had no great affiliation with anybody and so we ran rampant over Europe."

"Southern Europe in particular," Aldéric notes. "You were very fond of Suleiman."

The king smiles at this. "Yes, he was magnificent."

"Which sultan was this?" the Head Inquisitor asks, obviously unaware of the events that had transpired at that point. The pig is becoming quite obnoxious and he wishes for distraction—an educational one that could make his bond with the king grow even greater. The High Chancellor covers his mouth with a cloth napkin to wipe away his disgusted grimace. His leg hurts.