“You believe this will be the best course of action?” The prince fixed his advisor with a clear-eyed stare.
Said advisor elegantly flipped a tari across his knuckles. It was an unconscious affectation, but it invariably annoyed anyone who couldn’t do it, which was everyone.
“Better that than to offend the burgisi further. If I may speak plainly, my prince, lordship is not about refusing to sh*t on the heads of your lessers. It is about ensuring that the sh*t falls equally on everyone’s heads, and so they call it justice. And you, a just lord.”
Aimeric’s eyes flashed with something between frustration and amusement.
“If your tongue weren’t ever so important to me, I would have it cut out, my indolent, foppish uncle.”
“Were it so, I would be forced to pen my thoughts, and that would surely require my execution.” He chuckled.
For an indolent fop, Hugo carried himself well. This particular fop was in truth his nephew’s amiratus amiratorum, lured out of his estates after the fiasco at Jerba to guide the young monarch through the perils of court and the use of his own absolute power.
His short tenure at the head of the Council of State had outraged virtually everyone, for despite the Duke’s notorious intelligence, his flagrant womanizing and decadence was more notorious still. And the new taxes he had just convinced the prince to pass wouldn't help his reputation.
Aimeric sighed. “Hugo. I have a task that I must trust to a…diplomat of your skills.” He waited until his uncle nodded. “Ricard has fought manfully in Spain, but now he and his fleet are required elsewhere. You are to liaise with the Emir of Saraqusta and accompany him on the battlefield.”
Additionally, Hugo thought, it would get the prominent scandal that was Duke Hugo of Catania out of his nephew’s court, and the realm to boot. Clearly the boy was learning.
“My shining prince, I would never refuse a chance to succeed where my…manful brother has failed.”
“Excellent. You leave at once. You shall find more detailed instructions at the armory. And, Hugo?”
“My pubescently serene highness?”
“Don’t fail me, or I will reconsider the status of your tongue. And do try not to die.”
Hugo smirked. “Most princely of nephews, my death would bring such enormous satisfaction to such a great number of people, I am firmly decided upon never dying at all.”
“A wise policy.” Hugo was dismissed.
---
Ricard D’Orthez, Admiral of the Baleares, was everything his brother Hugo was not. The Admiral was solidly built, with a square jaw and short greying hair, dressed in simple military garb, and rigid in his personal code of physical exercise and military discipline. By comparison, the wafer-thin Duke of Catania in his calfskin boots and burgundy-colored floppy hat looked like the stereotypical self-absorbed courtier, and he had sailed to the Balaeres for this meeting on what could only be described as a ‘party boat’.
The two stared uncomfortably across a table at one another, as the sunset painted the tower chamber an autumn gold.
“So this is war,” Hugo exclaimed breathily, gesturing at the swarming activity in the harbor below the fortress. “I see now why you enjoy playing this game. It’s just like our little painted soldiers as boys, but…more so.”
Ricard grimaced. “Only you would compare the struggle of arms to a child’s game. This is not a court dance, Hugo. You cannot glide though with an easy smile and a quick tongue.”
“Well, we all have our own weapons which we choose to employ,” Hugo insinuated, conspicuously adjusting his belt buckle. “The court is its own battlefield, and the consequences for failure are just as dire.” His eyes were suddenly icy. “You think I am weak because I don’t swing a sword like a brute. But I understand conquest, and victory, and I am just as hungry for it as you, dear brother.”
The Admiral was silent for some time. “That may be,” Ricard grunted, “but now the Prince sees fit to send you to a true battlefield.”
“Oh Ricard, I can imagine what happened. Faisal is the master of his domain, and you of yours. With you two as commanders, it must have been like rams butting heads.”
The Admiral frowned. “I pass no judgment on the Emir’s honor. He is an excellent leader.”
“Well, lovely!” Hugo smiled obsequiously. “What this fellow needs is a facilitator, not a rival. You have your own little show elsewhere, and I will ensure that everything in Iberia runs smoothly.”
“Regardless, my officers will accompany you.”
“Oh good, your officers. Can I have the one with the moustache, what’s his name, Cavatelli?”
“Castamara.”
“Ah. Yes.”
Ricard rose. “Well, brother, business presses upon me. May the Lord bless you in the challenging days to come.”
“Oh nonsense, Ricard. I shall return to you a conquering hero, bedecked with garlands, having captured the enemy…what do they have, a banner, or a standard? Graven image? Where are you going?”
But the Admiral was gone.
“Ah well,” Hugo sighed to himself. “I wonder what sort of wine cellar this fortress might have…”
