Volume 10 Prologue (1/2)
”Your Highness,” he called out, then abruptly fell silent.
The one before him was undoubtedly the crown prince of Mephius. However, as he currently had a tankard of beer filled to the brim in his right hand, while his left one was firmly wrapped around the waist of a half-sitting prost.i.tute, that particular form of address was completely inappropriate.
”Your friend calls you 'Your Highness'?” The prost.i.tute laughed, visibly amused.
The crown prince of Mephius opened his mouth wide as he roared with laughter. ”That's his way of being sarcastic. Look at what an educated face he has. Whenever he wants to look down on the ignorant me, that's how he calls me.”
The Prince gulped down his alcohol. However, when he cleared his throat with a sullen expression, the crown prince shoved away the prost.i.tute, looking rather fed-up.
”Go along, there'll be complicated talks about national affairs from here on. Can't hold them in front of a tart.”
”What's that, Idiot!” The prost.i.tute puffed out her cheeks at the harsh words. But her rouged lips immediately curved into a smile. ”Well then, see you, 'Your Highness'. Next time you're around, please look me up.”
She gave him a formal curtsy and then, laughing shrilly, she started throwing flirtatious glances at other customers. A few minutes later, her backside was already sitting on yet another man's knee.
The air was filled both with the stench, close to the odour of beasts, of alcohol turned sour, as well as with the incessant din of lewd jokes, of rogues raising their voices angrily, and of the laughing cajoling of prost.i.tutes.
”You really are careless,” the crown prince smiled cynically, ”Marching into a place like this, you stick out like a sore thumb. Here, drink.”
”No, I…”
”Aren't we friends who used to have drinking bouts until dawn in the old days? Oi, you lot, some decent booze for Lord Jurome.”
'Lord Jurome' was the nickname that he gave him when they wanted to hide their ident.i.ties.
He sighed again. ”I can't take those kinds of excesses anymore, Argos.”
Given where they were, he called the crown prince by his alias.
'Argos' flashed his teeth. ”You sound like an old man. Since you're three years older than me, you shouldn't even be thirty yet.”
”I'm not that young anymore. The same goes for you, Argos. At the very least, you can't keep going out all night without a single thought to your own safety.”
”If we're talking about settling down, you go first. I'm prudent by nature. Once I've watched you set up a family, and after you've provided me with enough reference material, then I'll take my time carefully choosing a bride.”
”What's this about you getting married, Argos, Your Excellency?”
A man at the same table turned his ruddy face towards them. His head was wrapped in bandages. Blood was still seeping through them. It was not only him; the dozen or so men at the table all had injuries to their faces or limbs. It was hardly surprising. Only a few days earlier, they had all been standing on a battlefield awash with murderous roars.
”If you're choosing a bride, go for a woman from the southern coasts. The women from Zonga especially, their pa.s.sion runs deep and their chests are abundant. Not only that, in a fight, they'll use the self-defence swords they got from their parents to protect their man.”
”You can only talk about what you know, but this guy doesn't know any other kind of woman, Excellency,” another man barged in. ”Now I'm an expert on this point. I've even slept with island girls from Baroll. If you want to feel like there's a fire burning beneath your skin, there's nothing like them.”
”Nonono, n.o.blewomen from Ende are the way to go. They're not like clodhopping Mephian women, they're cultured and refined. And more importantly, they have smooth skin! There's a story about those fat merchants from the northern coasts offering to exchange their own weight in gold for them when they all pleaded with the Ende n.o.bles.”
The number of people chiming in kept increasing and it turned into a review of the women of each country. The man referred to as Lord Jurome was the only one who did not get involved, instead staring up at the ceiling towards which smoke was gently wafting.
All of those around the table were old, familiar faces. But if you compared them to the informal 'pre-battle ceremony' that they had held in a similarly cheap hostel before going to war, the number of people had decreased.
They had lost the battle.
The bullets threatening at their backs and the raised swords and axes had created the sensation of a wind of steel that had buffeted both Jurome and Argos repeatedly. No matter how much alcohol he drank, the scenes of his friends falling in front of his eyes would not vanish from Jurome's retinas. Yet even so, Argos and the others still joked around idly and gulped down cheap alcohol, just as they had during that 'pre-battle ceremony'.
Strangely enough, that battlefield was the same one on which Argos - the crown prince of Mephius, had taken part in his first campaign.
That had been eight years ago. The land that they had seized from their neighbouring country, Garbera, at that time had been s.n.a.t.c.hed back by an army led by King Jeorg Owell in person.
The crown prince's forces had steadily been cut down, and he had lost a great many of his men. Even so, his thirst for victory was insatiable and Argos had every intention of fighting to the bitter end, but had been forced to turn back when he received direct orders from his father, the emperor of Mephius. Thereupon, the first place he had headed for was this tavern.
Eventually, having settled his bill, Argos left the store with just Jurome in tow. They headed towards the stables. Argos, ever generous, handed an excessively large tip to a pimply-faced stable boy. Then, ignoring the boy's repeated thanks, he leapt onto his still-fastened horse.
After that, Argos spurred his horse into a gallop and sank into such morose silence that it seemed hard to believe that he had been merrymaking at the tavern.