The King's Might: A Legend of Averdan

Part Two, Chapter One

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

There are footnotes in this story. Yes, Terry Pratchett style footnotes. Due to lack of footnote-formatting ability here, I've inserted a bolded number in parentheses after the footnoted phrase--the note itself will be numbered, in bold, at the end of the section in which it occurs. This is not how I'd want to do this, but then again, you know. You should read them. They're worth it.

EFR

PART TWO

OOT

*****

One

In Which Something is Definitely Rotten

"Blast," Alair said. "This is going to be boring."

The two men were traveling at a brisk speed over a bumpy cobbled road, one that felt like it hadn't been repaired in centuries. They jounced and bounced. The lanterns hung at the corners of their coach had long since been jostled off their hangers and lay smashed a few miles back on the road. A dreary succession of dry brush and the occasional stunted tree flowed by outside, almost unnoticed by the two young exiles. The sky, fading slowly into sunset, was so grey Jalith wondered if someone had stolen its color.

"I was thinking we'd have some adventures, you know," Alair continued. "Like heroes in the old tales. But I guess if we're busy counting bushes and peasants there's no time for adventuring. More's the shame. I brought my nicest sword along."

"Well, maybe you'll get to carve a turkey with it," Jalith said comfortingly. "And I'm sure you'll get some wenching done as well. I know how you love wenching."

"Aye," Alair said, winking. "And the wenches don't mind it, either."

"Good-looking bastard."

"Why do you always say that? You aren't bad yourself."

"I'm too pale. Too blond. It frightens them."

"Nothing a few sweet nothings and a promise of a bastard in the House of Heirs won't cure."

"It still wouldn't make them like it."

"Posh. They'd like it. Screwing a foreigner is exotic and fashionable. Don't tell me you haven't noticed Lukere's wife looking at you at banquets. She's positively dying for it."

"And I, if I touched Lukere's wife, would indeed positively die."

Alair waved it off airily. "I'm just saying. You know, that's part of your problem. Your reputation's too good. Not a single bastard son, no scandals with some province lord's wife, no drunken tavern brawls."

"I did just get exiled for a year for nearly beating three men to death, you know," Jalith said, a trifle bitterly.

"Yes, but that's...that's creepy bad. You need some cheeky bad in there. Perhaps, when we get to Oot City, you can glue Baroness Machertani's train to her chair. That's always a good one. Or wenching. Again, I promise you, there are some bored and beautiful girls in the provinces."

"I think my reputation's been damaged enough, creepily or cheekily, for a long time to come, Alair."

A particularly rude jounce sent Alair bumping into Jalith. The two men righted themselves and their possessions with some irritation.