Barbarian Instinct
The next day did not contain any contest, which was the sole exception for the fiveday of the festival. Instead, it was the great spectacle where the Legio Urbis would perform a battle for the citizens to enjoy. Like yesterday, Martel debated with himself whether he should attend. He knew that he should be careful, but he could take the sa precautions as yesterday. Furthermore, he felt guilty for leaving abruptly after the archery contest had ended without a single word of commiseration to Eleanor. She must have thought him callous. He could not miss her father's big event.
Thus, once more dressed in the sa feathers as the birds he would join, Martel walked the long route to the festival square in the temple district. As a further precaution, he did not choose the sa roads as yesterday, and he kept looking over his shoulder until he reached the stands. It was a testant to strange tis that for once, he felt more at ease among the nobility than the common people. But the chances that any of the silk-clad nobles around him were secretly assassins working for Vitus seed slim at best.
Sitting down next to Maximilian, Martel leaned forward to look at Eleanor on the other side. "Sorry you lost yesterday."
"Final round is better than I expected to do, honestly," she replied in a light-hearted manner.
"That reminds , you owe , Nordmark. We shall have to find an establishnt worthy of our patronage… or just go to the Bird, I guess," Maximilian suggested.
"I'll think about it," Martel quickly replied. Going to The Golden Goose, so near the harbour, was obviously out of the question. Nor could he really justify going elsewhere. While he imagined he would be safe with two mageknights by his side, a fight might still break out. It would only be fair to warn his friends that at present, Martel's company might provoke hostilities, but then he would also have to explain why.
"Why does he owe you money?" Eleanor asked.
"Our northern friend was rather optimistic on your behalf! Bet ten silvers you would win yesterday," Maximilian declared with a satisfied smile. "Easiest coin I have ever made."
She shot him a look. "You bet against ?"
"Well, the odds – it was clearly the right wager to make."
"I am touched by your confidence."
Martel saw no reason to interject anything; he kept his eyes on the field where the warriors of the First Legion had begun to appear.
***
Across the festival square, planks of wood had been nailed together to create what could be considered a primitive aqueduct. Through this, water flowed swiftly, despite it being level, suggesting the involvent of watermages. This artificial river divided the open space in half. On one side, various people in ordinary garb could be seen in groups with the occasional band of legionaries. On the other side, hundreds of warriors dressed in hides and other barbaric clothing could be seen. Without warning, the primitives let loose cries of war and jumped across the stream of water to assault the soldiers and commoners on the other side.
The effigy of a grueso battle erupted as the barbarians killed or dragged the others back across the river.
It was not particularly subtle, and Martel understood, as he imagined everyone else did; these were Tyrian raiders, crossing the Frosten river to assault Asterian settlents. "Is this a historical battle like last year?"
Maximilian shrugged. "That could be."
"Not a specific one, no," Eleanor chid in. "Consider it a general version of the struggle along the northern border. You must have heard stories like this?"
"I suppose, but Engby is quite far south from the Frosten river. It's never happened to anybody I t."
"Proof of the vigilance of our northern legions," the viscount declared. "Anyway, I rember now. We had a war with the barbarians so hundred years ago, did we not? Obviously, this is in reference to that."
"Maybe," Martel considered with doubt in his voice. As he recalled, that campaign had gone disastrously for the Asterians. "I'm just surprised the enemy is not the Khivans."
"We had that the first few years of the war, and not too long ago either," Eleanor explained. "But it gets repetitive, I suppose. People expect sothing new each year."
It struck Martel how war was a spectacle to these people, even his friends. Despite all the losses, all the wounded and maid veterans roaming Morcaster, it still remained a performance in the minds of many; a distraction from the toil of ordinary days. He watched as reinforcents of legionaries arrived, driving the Tyrians back across the river, but he could not partake in the elated outbursts and cries of victory resounding from those around him. It all seed hollow.
***
Martel allowed his friends to slip ahead of him, falling behind until he could go in another direction altogether. He felt guilty about simply disappearing, but he could not stay out any longer, nor let them be dragged into his feud with Vitus. Instead, he returned to the Lyceum through the winding paths of the temple district.
Once back, he found a ssage waiting for him. It had been pushed under his door, as the clerks manning the desks in the entrance hall were at the festival, presumably.
Tomorrow, bridge district.
At second bell. By the gate.
Use the clothes from last.
Harold
Strangely early, compared to Martel's last outing. The location also made him wonder what the target could be, since this was not anywhere near the harbour. Fortunately, the harvest festival ant that classes were cancelled, so he did not have to co up with a reason to be excused. He would have to explain his absence to Maximilian, who expected him as company for watching the joust, but that would not be hard.
Once more finding himself nearly alone at the castle, Martel went to his room and practised his lightning spell in front of an open window.
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