At His Majesty's Pleasure

"Are you hiding out here, my sweet ermine? I can smelllll your perfuuuume! Oh Princess, lalaaaaa!"

The rhythm of her speech quickened as she hastily slipped the cards back into the cache and pulled herself to her feet. One very deep breath later, she declared that secret recipe: "Half cup butter two cups sugar two eggs three cups flour eight ounces of dates twocupsboilingwater it has been a pleasure, Your Grace, but I've tarried and I - "

"Oh those diamonds at the ends of your lashes...!" Strum strum PLUCK strum PLUCK. Growing ever closer.

Sucking in the last of her words, she dipped into a haste curtsy, as good of a note to end her thought on as any - even better, an expedient one. She turned her heel and made all the progress of one-two steps before a whimsical altruism (and a touch of guilt) struck her with all the spontaneity of an alchemical reaction. (Maybe she also secretly enjoyed the Duke's company, but that was besides the point.) Somewhat more slowly, she shifted back to face him.

He had risen as well, his full stature dwarfing the hedges that surrounded them; she hadn't realized how tall he was until they were both standing, and she had to crane her neck to look at him. He looked like he was close to laughing.

"You don't want to be at the receiving end of that," she murmured, quite serious. Hilariously serious compared to the off-key masculine trilling in the background. "You really don't." Her forearm lifted slightly, as open of an invitation to evasive maneuvers as she was willing to make.

Graciously, the Duke took the proffered arm, falling into step with particularly long strides - as if aware that she had taken the pains to linger and could only be repaid by his alacrity. "By the Gods, what could possibly have been so dangerous that you needed to flee so urgently?" he said, now actually laughing. "Had I realized you were so dogged by suitors, I would have been more considerate of your time."

Alais had to maintain a certain nearly breath-catching vigilance just to match his long stride, but she had no complaints; they were putting that distressing danger behind them.

"It was just a prince who fancies himself a troubadour," she answered from the side of her handsome new acquaintance, tone already growing more cheerful as they hurried out of imminent serenading range. Beyond that, it didn't feel right to openly criticize one of her would-be champions.

Quick to laughter and revelry, Hadrian wasn't usually intolerable - only when he wanted to sing, and worse when he had a lute in his hands. It wasn't even his songwriting that was bad, necessarily, just everything else about it. And the self-awareness that, because he was Prince of a relatively well-off nation of salt mines, everyone was obligated to suffer through his capers anyway. He had no shame, and he thought himself funny - a great and terrible combination.

As for her numerous suitors - the blood of the Durants had the so called luxury of being coveted without ever needing to covet. Old Vvarian Blood, it was sometimes called, and aged like fine wine. There were few kingdoms of the region not already tied or sworn in some way, where even the raider clans were bound to them by stringent oaths, and the troubles of those farther off seemed simply too far removed. Cut off with mountains or seas or a literal stretch of desert, save for a few narrow passes here or there. It made for a pleasantly scenic journey for merchants by caravan or foot, but not so much for vast armies.

That, combined with her unfortunate reputation as a beauty, made her seem like something of a prize to all those neighboring princes and kings, and it had been nimble (and subtle) footwork indeed that allowed her to elude them for the three years since Edmure passed.

Prince Edmure, her late betrothed. He hailed from regions remote enough to make things interesting, setting him apart from all the rest. Edmure had been the easy solution, so simple to get along with and with the sun in his cheeks, but then he had to get himself killed by the hand of that Obsivian, the venerable boogeyman (aka his imperial majesty) who was now purportedly being waited upon at this very party. Poor lump, dear Edmure, and that entire house. Although, it wasn't unlike them to have fought on until the bitter end. At least their ends were merciful, so she had been reassured.

They were now drawing closer to the palace again, and ahead, positioned close to the entryway, a makeshift stage had been erected. Alais recognized the minstrels as the ones that had been the subject of her previous gossip - those who had done a poor enough job as to have been exiled here by the chamberlain, far enough from the center of events as to not be an embarrassment. And small wonder! The lutist was cradling what looked like a broken hand, for one - an oddity that briefly drew her curiosity, though she had heard some rumors of a few minstrels having been accosted by bandits en route. Perhaps these were the very ones, and they had yet to recover from the fright of the experience. Still, a modest crowd still milled in front of them, though many were as occupied by talking to each other as they were in watching the story.

"I wonder if these minstrels could be really so terrible as to be evicted here," the Duke said to her, in an undertone. Conspiratorially, he added "Are you any good at discerning skill?"

"If they are offensive enough, I doubt it will take much skill. But - is there not such a thing as being so bad it's good?" A valid curiosity. She took no issue to being drawn toward the shamed mummers (though she noted the subtle presumption, again, in the way he lead them). The more distractions and excuses to keep her well and away from the masquerade proper, the better. And this, she actually wanted to see, if not for the novelty of this particular brand of badness.

But only a few moments after they drew near, an intermission of some kind seemed to interrupt the performance.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" the jester called out, emerging with a couple of his fellow actors. His cadence was audibly different, making it clear that he was out of character. "My deepest apologies, but our actress playing Lady Anne has suddenly fallen ill. Never fear - she's perfectly fine, merely indisposed and not in the best condition to carry on with the show. In light of that, we are asking for a volunteer from the audience to take her place! Please, we implore you - as we have the script right here, all you have to do is put on this mask and read the lines with flair!"

Goodness, the minstrels seemed to really be having a bad time of it tonight, didn't they? The desperate jester's pleas was close to drawing her secondhand embarrassment, and if that wasn't enough, she had the vaguely uneasy feeling that if she lingered too long, he might try to seize on her as a volunteer - such was the unfortunate privilege of being the princess. She steered away, and the Duke, seeming to understand her intent, followed along.

"And here I thought you might jump at the opportunity to awe us all with your performance," he said, in a light undertone. The tribulations of the jester slowly faded, as they put distance behind them. "It seems many artists are not faring well tonight - your princely troubadour, and now poor Lady Anne." Dryly, and with a slant of a smile, he added, "How fortunate that I haven't regaled you with lutesong myself."

"If I hear so much as one verse from you, I will leave you here. I swear it." Impassive as her tone remained, with her head pointed straight forward and her step slightly ahead of his, she was now familiar enough with his presence to counter his humor with playful threats.

She pressed onward with no specific destination in mind, another roundabout trek into the verdant gardens in spite of prior intent. There were theatrical dangers lying in wait no matter where she wanted to go; if she took a more obscure path, perhaps she might actually make it to her destination without further interruption. So it was decided; roundabout trekking back to the palace it was. At least her shoes were comfortable enough for the journey, for what they were, all studded with gemstones and lace.

Trees, hedges, and nondescript marble again cast long shadows across their stone path, the darkness of the pristinely manicured nature replacing the pretty glows of the palace lights. With an enduring history of neutrality and goodwill, Vvaria had few enemies within reach and even fewer direct attempts at spite. She had her assigned token guards, both exceptional and dear to her heart, but the days for constant vigil were long since past. There hadn't been a need for such surveillance for many, many years, and she was comfortable entertaining her company absent any aides or... anyone, as a matter of fact. True enough, she had relaxed the duties of Sers Hendrik and Natanaele, citing a need for her own breathing space, and their greater use rushers elsewhere. If not that, then for their own enjoyment during the festivities - a degree of leisure unheard of in more turbulent lands.

Nothing ever happened within these palace grounds, but even she was growing increasingly aware of how unorthodox this could seem. A serendipitous encounter in the gardens meant nothing suspect. A prolonged stroll in the darkness with someone she'd just met probably did warrant the presence of at least one vigilant knight, unfortunately, even if nothing ever happened within these palace grounds. She had thus far enjoyed the company of the mysterious Duke - which was unfortunate, as she would probably never see him again - but it was probably prudent for her to excuse herself now. Reluctantly, she opened her mouth, but he spoke up before she could begin.

"Since we weren't able to truly finish our game, I would like to propose another wager: one that hinges on whether I can find one of your other hiding spots. I feel that I owe it to the good people of Vvaria to confiscate at least some of the dangerous contraband hidden in its walls." His smile remained ever charming. "After that, I promise to leave you to build as many card castles as you please - in peace."

Her steps slowed with a hint of surprise. Interest piquing again, she turned to him brows raised. "Is that what you'd like? Funny. Doesn't that seem beneath a man of your stature?" she mused.

If she had any question as to why she was so welcoming of present company, they could finally be put to rest. He really was... different. She still strained to label him with more precise characteristics, words like hummingbirds fluttering out of reach - what better opportunity did she have than to keep observing? Smiling a smile that alighted her eyes, and with more sincerity than the rest, she nodded her assent. Another little game would be harmless, and she couldn't say no to the mischief in his eyes. "Very well. Name your terms."

He smiled at her assent. "This venture still calls for luck, I'm sure, but I do think skill is of greater importance here than in Snake and Tiger. So I'd like to up the ante." He strolled beside her, his steps broad and assured, as he glanced sidelong. "If I fail, I'll tell you something about my King that no one else in the world knows."

The smile lingered at his lips, so that it wasn't entirely certain if he were still joking - and to what extent. His information could be completely trivial, of course, while still satisfying the parameters, but his tone had a pinch of intrigue to it that promised something interesting - whether or not it was significant.

"Oh, so you're suddenly a keeper of secrets? Is there something you aren't telling me, Your Grace?" A jab in recompense for her state secret recipe stunt, she was willing to wager. For all the flare she vested in her interrogation, she thought little of it, her incredulity tempered with that pervasively cheery good humor. "I accept."

And yet... Though irrefutably intrigued by the game, she knew it would at least be prudent to resist tarrying for any longer. Maybe not for the spectres of dangers which weren't likely to be, but for the fact that she'd rather not upset anyone with a drawn-out, conspicuous absence. She maintained her step along the path, sometimes slowing, but never stopping even as she waited for him to make his inspections.

He seemed content to merely scrutinize their surroundings, until they reached a long stone wall - thick and half his height, which separated their path from beyond the garden proper. "Hmm," he said, letting his fingers ghost over the individual crevices created by the protruding rocks. "No, too nondescript," he concluded, withdrawing. He indicated the length of the structure, unbroken for a great interval, with a sweep of his arm. "You'd want something more distinguishable, a mark or an impression of some kind to easily return to."

She noticed that he was looking more at her than the wall, and realized that he was only voicing this conjecture to see how she would react - using that as a gauge as to whether to investigate further.

And so after a moment, a lighthearted, "You'll have to try harder than that," sprang from her lips, and she turned the corner, not waiting for him to keep up.

Despite the eccentricities of this game, she reminded herself that it was perfectly innocuous. The lack of a closely quartered chaperone was more than compensated for by the battle-ready sentinels guarding this post and that. Grandfather enjoyed peace a bit too much, but Grandfather wasn't stupid. To disregard the nature of tonight's guest had as much risk as setting loose a hyena in a hen house. True, the patrols were much thinner here in the gardens, where most didn't bother to tread so remotely hidden from the warmth of music and lights. But the gardens were also geographically dead center; there were no entrance or exit points left unguarded. The fairy tale duskiness aside, she was still in the realm of safety, of comfort, of familiarity, and of home.

Rounding the path, they came upon the cracked and chipped surface of an old fountain. Its waters had dried years ago, and it was nearly smothered by the advance of ivy and vine, but the marble carving of two cherubs was still intact.

"Perfect," the Duke noted. He let his foot brush the base of the fountain, finding that there was loose soil there. "Out of the way, but distinguishable. I'm willing to bet I've found something."

"Maybe." Her steps padded gently around the fountain, as she kept her eyes on him with the same astute interest as before, betraying no impatience. "But you must strive for accuracy and efficiency. It wouldn't be a fair wager at all if I gave you forever... Let's say, two minutes." Her hand reached upwards to the pendant hanging from her neck, clicking it open. A faint ticking could be heard from the intricate gears of the opened locket, a practical piece of jewelry that was as good as a watch. Better, in fact.

"There is something about this fountain," she so generously offered, deliberate in her vagueness. Still, it had to be better than nothing at all. "And you have roughly a hundred ticks left to find it."

He looked amused by this, but bent swiftly down regardless, rummaging around in the leaves at the base of the fountain. After a few moments, he paused.

"Interesting. Will you look at this?" He bade her come closer.

Odd. There shouldn't have been anything there either; burying objects directly in soil without a structure to encase it with was something to be avoided - mostly because it made a mess of things. That was, Radvar made a mess of things when he applied the strategy to a pouch of hard candies. It rained the next day, and there were insects the following hour. But, she could see the logic in this.

"... All right, what have you discovered?" she relented, drawing near again. Blinking, she stooped over, still standing relatively straight on her feet.

He rose, sidestepping to grant her room.

This was rapidly becoming silly, but she lowered to some semblance of a kneel nonetheless, and was conscious of the fact that even the most versatile of party dresses were not made for crouching in shrubs. Her lips parted again, as if to ask what for the second time.

But before she could, the cool touch of a blade tucked beneath her chin, pressed lightly against her throat. What? "Not a word," said the Duke, behind her. There was a casual threat to his words that was eerily convincing, but somehow, he managed to maintain his pleasant demeanor (though it had a distinctly mocking cadence to it now).

There were a million things retorts which could have been said, the chief of which being: this isn't funny or what are you playing at or, her personal favorite, have you gone insane, you daft arse. Her thoughts instead drew a blank. She could hear her heart hammering in her chest, louder than the breaths which barely stole from her chest or the evening breeze teasing coolly at her skin. What was this? The question almost sounded dull to her mind, unvoiced as the Duke's blade hovered mind-numbingly close to her skin. The Duke? The Duke?

"That's right. One slip of my hand..." The knife edged just a touch closer, enough to instill panic. "...and all that blood will ruin your lovely dress. Let's try not to do it that way." Incomprehensibly, it seemed like he was amused by her panic. "Stand."

Almost reflexively, she edged away from the blade, as much as she could, but did not move to obey. It was almost as if the threat had fallen on deaf ears, drowned out by an odd concoction of her pulse and internalized screaming. You fell right into his hand.

Duke Adrien made a tsking sound. In the next moment, his other hand clamped over her mouth, forcefully, at the same time sliding his knife just far enough to jerk her up; her back was pressed firmly against him, trapped there by his easy strength. The blade resumed its place at her neck, like a reminder.

But the sudden movement was enough to propel her to alertness, the warmth of the sudden contact cloying and simultaneously sickening. A muffled cry hummed into his hand. She repeated his threat in her thoughts, swallowing as she quickly - desperately poured through her options.

He wasn't going to do it. For all this trouble, he wasn't going to have her killed like this, before whatever half-baked plan this was had any hope of bearing fruit. That was the rational way to go about this. The tension in her limbs seemed to relax, for a moment, so that even her breathing seemed to still. She willed herself to wait just - for one moment.

"I do apologize for going about things this way," he continued, every word sounding insincere. "But as long as you cooperate - "

It was here that she kicked blindly behind her, and made to bolt her way out of his grasp. He was so much stronger - but all she needed was just a little bit of surprise.

The kick landed, but Adrien didn't buckle. Instead, the hand about her mouth tightened, enough to be painful, and it only seemed to prompt him into swifter action. His knife shifted, in one quick jab of a movement, to cut into her arm - puncturing cloth, lace, and flesh altogether.

The pain of the sudden incision tore another muted cry from her, her fingers flying upwards to pry his hand from her face. She was struggling everywhere, her heels were now stomping frantically over his toes. What sounded like a frustrated "Let go" died into his palm.

In response, he snaked his arm snake about her waist, merely lifting her heels from the reach of his toes; his hand remained firmly clamped over her mouth, for all her thrashing and squirming, as if the labors of her fingers were inconsequential. And above all, she was still being held forcibly against him, the heat of his body an unwanted intimacy from which there was no escape.