Chapter 1431: Crowning feasts(2)

"A dance!" the Queen of Yarzat cried out, her eyes glittering with the wild giddiness Alpheo had learned to love.

She looked precisely as radiant as the morning sixteen winters ago when two sodden burlap sacks had been tossed at her dainty feet, one holding the butchered corpse of his usurping uncle, the other , much smaller, her eldest cousin, snuffing out the last bloodline that could have contested the throne beneath her skirts.

Their union had been baptized in the slaughter of her own kin, and even now, it staggered Alpheo how smoothly the butchery had settled. In any other place and family, a conqueror would have spent the last decade and a half waking in cold sweats, waiting for his highborn bride to slip three inches of steel into his ribs or to wake up with a river’s of blood between his thigh.

Instead, here was his queen, flushed with spiced wine and yanking on his sleeve like an eager tavern girl, looking over for a small tip for a night of leasure.

Thanks owed to my dear goodfather for that , the king thought as he lost himself in the depth of his wife’s smile.

There may have been not many that thought of the late prince with warm heart or really anything that wasn’t scorn, the last one being ser Robert, but had he not been so terrible a father and a prince, Alpheo may have never held his chance.

So if nothing else was to be said and done, he would have his goodson and murderer’s gratitude for that.

Returning to the feast the musicians had long abandoned their polite courtly melodies for a raucous, stomping southern reel. Drums thundered, flutes shrieked with infectious joy, fiddlers wailed and the roared laughter of drunkards and knights shook the high rafters.

The revelry demanded more wine, which in turn demanded more shouting, and Jasmine had clearly partaken of her share of both.

A rosy bloom warmed her high cheekbones, a broad smile parted her lips, and her silver diadem struggled valiantly to pin down her dark curls, save for one unruly lock that tumbled down past her ear.

Alpheo put up a mummer’s show of reluctance, scowling and digging his heels into the flagstones for half a heartbeat before letting her drag him from the dais.

He had succeeded in it, as soon the queen beamed with unmasked victory as she hauled the King of the South out onto the marble.

Sometime it was good to give her something to bask in.

’’Give space to the Fox and his falcon!’’ someone in the mingle roared as the Great Hall erupted into cheer of table-thumping at the sight of their sovereign taking the floor with them.

Fortunately, after enduring Ratto’s wedding to Lysandra, Alpheo had been forced to suffer through a handful of rudimentary dancing lessons. It was nothing delicate, just enough crude footwork to ensure he didn’t crush his partner’s toes with the heel of his boot.

As the tempo surged, Jasmine caught his rough, calloused hands, spinning into his chest in a swirl of ivory samite and silver silk. For all his stiff posture, Alpheo caught her waist with easy enough, matching her turns with surprising skill, for both him and his partner.

Midway through the third spin, a screeching, off-key bawling managed to rise above the din of fiddles and drums. It hurt his ears worse than the music already was doing.

Alpheo maneuvered Jasmine through the turn and immediately spotted the culprit. It was none other than Edric, who had kicked his greasy boots onto the center of the officers’ trestle table, sloshing half a flagon of mead down his chest as Asag and Rykio hammered their daggers on the boards, howling with laughter and egging him on like dogs at a bear-baiting.

The young legate of the Arditi was bellowing Dirty Alice at the top of his lungs, his voice cracked and devoid of tune.

"Oilà, oilà, oilà!" He roared, waving an oily mutton bone at the high timber ceiling."The green lad shrieked with a thumb up his rear!"

Alpheo deftly twirled the Queen outward, timing the spin solely so he wouldn’t miss a second of his senior commander making a spectacle for all.

"’No more, no more!’ he wept to the village tart,

’Come on, sweet pig,’ quoth she, shoving three fingers apart!

She bit his tender ear, all wicked and crude,

With a tongue like a goat and a temper quite as lewd!

’Hold fast, hold fast!’ she barked as she reached for the grease,

’Gods no, sweet maid!’ he wailed, as she brandished the piece!

The Five gave her skirts, but if the boy had no pluck,

She’d strap on the wood and teach him to buck!

Dirty Alice! Dirty Alice, the terror of the lane!

Take your lashing like a lad and don’t you dare complain,

For when the fun is over, your cock is dry and your breaches are undone,

It’s Alice with the mop who sweeps the puddles in the sun!"

It was a stroke of divine fortune that Alpheo kept his eyes locked upon the high table, for he didn’t miss what happened next.

As he shrieked out that final triumphant note about the mop, Edric attempted a dashing, leap into the air, intending for what the king could only think was a mid-spin before sticking the landing on the boards.

But the man was five flagons deep into the apple cider .

He remembered the jump well enough, but forgot the part where a man needs to aim his heels at solid oak.

He came down hard with one boot catching the greasy edge of a silver trencher and the other planting firmly into thin air.

With a flailing yelp, the legate plummeted backward like a felled pine, catching the corner of the heavy damask tablecloth on his way down. He took half the high table with him: three roast capons, two tureens of scalding gravy, a silver candelabra, and an entire bowl of stewed plums cascaded directly onto his chest and face.

Before he could even wipe the plums from his eyes, two stern-faced guards hoisted him by his armpits and dragged him backward through the side door, leaving a thick trail of goose fat and gravy across the polished stone while a dozen outraged Herculian lords and knights wiped roasted leeks off their velvet sleeves.

Alpheo’s attention snapped back to Jasmine just as she threw her head back, shaking with unrestrained, breathless laughter.

For a heartbeat, the King thought his highborn wife was weeping with joy over the sight of his general being baptized in onion broth. But when the reel whipped her around, planting her firmly against his chest, her painted lips parted against his neck and he caught the unmistakable, telltale slur of something as old as human.

"Alpheo..." she giggled into his collar, her eyes wide, glassy, and fixed somewhere vaguely near his left ear. "The floor is tilting... and I think there are two of you. Which one conquered this city?"

"I’d wager the one who’s keeping you from eating marble," Alpheo muttered, desperately hooking an arm around her waist to prevent her from tipping into a passing tray of stuffed figs.

Over Jasmine’s shoulder, his eye caught Maraya standing near the table. She was crisply directing two armored guards to haul her own husband away, the great legate looking considerably less fierce than usual as he lay face-down in an empty trencher, snoring peacefully into the spilled spiced wine. He was never quite good with the wine, despite his size.

He had learned that fast on the red sand of Arlania when Egil first hid the cask of wine he had gotten from the Romelian camp during their escape.

A wishful smile bloomed on the king’s face at the recollection of that night of revelry and unbuckled freedom.

Still as of now , there was a drunk woman to take care of, so Alpheo caught his good-sister’s eye and gave a subtle jerk of his chin toward the Queen. Maraya took a second to look , then gave a nod and began threading her way through the swirling mass of dancers.

"The one dancing?" Jasmine grinned lazily, resting her chin against his breast. "You are rather nimble on your toes... Not bad for a sellsword," she teased breathlessly, her voice husky against his chest

"I took a whole principality for you," Alpheo replied "A turn on the floor is light work."

He pressed his brow softly against hers for a fleeting second, drinking in her sweet scent. Jasmine, he realised, just before Maraya swooped in like a seasoned hawk.

She purred some words smoothly, hooking a firm arm around Jasmine’s waist with a bright, charming smile as he convinced her for a stroll on the gardens and the fountains

"The fountains..." Jasmine mumbled, offering Alpheo one last, glassy-eyed wave before letting herself be steered away. ’’My husband once accused me of being a ’whore’ there’’she laughed ’’He was not that wrong. My father’s thanks for that.’’ Another round of laughter ’’But I got my man there.’’

Torghan’s sister gave the king a confused gaze.

The king gave her a shake of his head before turning on his heel, he aimed himself squarely at his high-backed chair, dreaming of five blessed minutes of peace.

He made it exactly three paces.

A ringed hand snapped onto his leather doublet like an iron manacle.

"Not so fast, Brother,"Lysandra’s voice rang out behind him. Having deposited her husband into the care of the Kakunian delegation.

’’Have mercy, Lysandra. I marched a mile barefoot on freezing rock today."

"Then your soles are already numb, which means you ’ll feel me stepping on them even harder," she replied cheerfully, dragging the master of Yarzat backwards by his scruff right into the thickest, loudest, most violent circle of the stomping reel.

There was truly no rest for the wicked.