How long has it been, since Brousseau’s head was taken over Calandre’s limestone floors? Four weeks, maybe five.
What he means to say is that it has hardly been long since the hapless lord met his end amongst the trappings of court, the prying eyes of just about everyone in Val Faim fixed at his neck, yet the wound is no louder than a cautionary tale. People have not forgotten, per se, but for all the people whisper between teeth of tragedy, or the inherent justice of Fortin’s sword, they each agree that the fool’s demise is little more than a word to the wise. Something your nurse might have warned you about, back when you were young, as she tucked your sheets around you. But Degaré knows well that any chainmail can be penetrated, noble or not. Every breastplate has its weak spots, and while golden carapaces do a good job of seeming impressive protective coverings, the iron is easily undone by the executioner’s blade swinging down.
He speaks of Hippolyte’s untimely death with a certain lack of refinement, a commonness, but he is a bastard, and such things are second nature for him, no? He had stood before the Empress, looked Brousseau in the eye, then Calandre herself, and proclaimed he cared not a whit for the man’s fate. Do what you must, Your Imperial Majesty. If it’s justice you’ll have, then have justice. He is but a bastard: who is he to challenge the punishments and edicts of the Empress? He doesn’t put his neck on the line for people he likes, let alone strangers. Certainly not nobles. He has seen firsthand what happens to necks when they do so.
People have already forgotten, in any case. Whatever had been said of Calandre’s justice, or Calandre’s cruelty, is swept under the rug now. It does not surprise him. Even if there were not other affairs to think of, it would not surprise him. Whispers are always drowned out by something louder, something more easily seen; the fact that it is to an explosion that they owe such things had been entirely coincidental. On this point, Degaré has heard accounts of all sorts: to some, the much spoken of mages are radicals, but for others they are heralds with a secret, forewarning of the end of days. He has never much been a man of faith, but he does believe in magic. He has seen it, so he believes it. He saw Brousseau’s head knocked from his shoulders. He did not, however, see the explosion, nor the mages that caused it, or anything else that followed. For that reason, Degaré reserves his judgement.
When Medraut hurls his tankard of ale at the wall to his left, Degaré isn’t far away. The sound of it, and the sound of patrons murmuring beside him, offering grunts of disapproval, stirs him. When the wood splits itself apart on impact, the liquid of the cup spilling forth like a fountain, he answers it. Such things are instinct. Ah, call it what remains of the past month’s celebrations, or every other occasion which called for a cup of ale thereafter. Good for money, certainly, but a surefire way to see blood spilled. Degaré has pulled apart more fistfights in the last six weeks than he cares to count, and while he doesn’t wish to involve himself in yet another, destruction of his property also won’t do. When Degaré draws closer, the very image of irritation, he realises that he knows this face. Not well. Hardly at all, in fact. Medraut Galant had been a fixture here, once; caused dor to flow as easily as wine, as readily the blood he spilled. That had been before. Before the Mane was his, when he tucked himself in hidden corners, hooded. He remembers the face, though.
When he looms over him, Medraut doesn’t meet Degaré’s eye, doesn’t even open his own. “Is that a threat, dog?” He enunciates clearly, his voice a low growl. “Empress’ gallants cross swords with innocent passersby as well as enemies and traitors now, do they? Now, that’s hardly a virtue worthy of the name.” Pushing a man known equally for his rage as his onslaught to the point of execution is unwise, perhaps, but he knows how to deal with such beasts. In fact, he has a bullring for such beasts, and he knows as much from experience as he does whispers that this one fights better than most. Tonight, though, the pen is closed. “If it’s blood you’re spilling, you won’t do it here.”
Medraut’s reunion with Iseult two nights ago was as much a debriefing as it was a homecoming, and among Medraut’s first (of many, many) questions was this: “And what of the Mane? Is it still standing?” To which Iseult replied, “Still standing.” A loaded pause. “New owner. Lambert’s bastard—Degaré.” When they said nothing else, Medraut pressed for more. His plea fell on deaf ears, and he was answered with naught but a long-suffering look. But Medraut, ever a dog with a bone, pressed still, and Iseult, ever keen to Medraut’s relentlessness, folded. “A lot of lip on him,” Iseult said. “Tongue like a knife, that one. More dangerous with his mouth than you are with a broadsword, I’d wager.” When Medraut told Iseult he’d have to put their theory to the test, they’d only smiled, as if to say, Good luck, kid. You’ll need it.
Medraut lifts his gaze to meet Degaré’s, one corner of his mouth hooked with a lopsided half-grin. The insult Lambert hurls at him misses its mark. Medraut’s been called far worse by people who mean far more to him than Degaré Lambert; the bastard will have to do better than “dog” if he intends to go toe to toe with an Underworld castaway. “I don’t issue threats,” he says, voice low, full of grit and gravel. “You’ll find, Lambert, that I’m all bite, no bark.” Translation: if I want to gut you, I’ll gut you, and you’ll know it when my knife is belly-deep in you, and not a second sooner.
As he studies Degaré, who looms over him with bared teeth, tongue poised to strike, Medraut thinks Iseult was right about at least one thing: Degaré Lambert’s mouth is dangerous. The way he reaches into Medraut, roots around his person, within and without, looking for for raw nerves to poke, for soft spots to press down hard on—that’s dangerous. The way Lambert intuits that his first blow—“dog”—misses its mark—that’s dangerous. The way Lambert learns from his error in judgment, recalculates, adjusts his strategy, and lands his second blow with uncanny aim—that’s perhaps the most dangerous thing about him. A tongue like Degaré’s is a hazard all on its own, but a tongue like Degaré’s paired with a nose for open wounds like Degaré’s is lethal, especially to Medraut, whose every sentiment, fleeting or otherwise, is written all over his face and body, hidden in plain sight.
Let the sharper knife win, then: Degaré’s tongue, Medraut’s anger.
He can’t be sure which of Lambert’s words, exactly, snag on the bramble and thorns of his pride, but somewhere between “dog” and “worthy,” his temper flares, and he has to stow his fists beneath the cover of the table to hide the shaking of them from Degaré. “An innocent passerby?” he repeats. He means to sound flip, but there’s a tightness in his voice that betrays his charade, if you listen closely. “You’re the proprietor of Val Faim’s hub of secrets. I’d wager the well of your innocence runs shallow, Lambert.” A wolf is a wolf is a wolf, no matter how well-spoken—and Degaré Lambert is a wolf.
Indifferent to any voice of authority that isn’t Roth’s, he bristles at Degaré’s order—“you won’t do it here”—and makes no concerted effort to school his scowl. “I’m meant to spill blood here only when it suits your coffers, is that it?” he scoffs, indignant. “Dance, Chevalier, dance?” Medraut can practically hear Roth groaning in his head, begging his composure, his restraint. So public a display of insolence from one of Calandre’s Chevaliers reflects poorly on crown and kingdom alike, and Roth will no doubt be unhappy to hear of it. Fists still hidden beneath the table, he leans forward, entreating Degaré to meet him halfway. “Noble by half or by whole, it matters little to me. I don’t answer to you, Lambert.”
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