James checks his pistol, then holsters it.
“I think this is Hank’s way of greeting us. It’s certainly his style. Stay alert, though – we’re not even at the castle yet.”
Watchfully, they enter the village proper and wind their way through the gathering crowds, more or less maintaining their bearing towards the ominous palace looming above. James scrutinizes each of the town’s denizens with a wary eye. The more he observes, the more evident the pattern becomes.
“Interesting.” He mutters.
“What?” Matilda says, similarly surveying the costumed throng.
“It’s weird. Everyone seems like they’re formed into groups of similar entertainers.”
He nods in the direction of a pratfall of clowns wearing motley and tight jester’s breeches, mimicking passers-by. They cavort as a group, but they do not give particular encouragement when one of their own performs. Stoic expressions form on their faces when one of their number tries to outperform the rest. One of the jesters makes eye contact with James and immediately smiles wide. Winking jauntily at the Taciturn, the man starts frantically juggling five oranges.
Matilda moans in disgust. “Ugh. Super creepy.”
James scans the rest of the performance groups in close proximity. “Yeah, you can say that again. For entertainers, they don’t seem to be having much fun.”
They pass a group of girls wearing patchwork dresses with bright red rouge on their cheeks. While balancing on their toes, they hand out fliers to passers-by. When one of the girls slips and falls to the ground, the rest in her group immediately stop their work. They instantly flock around her in a huddle, their backs to the crowd. James and Matilda see a flurry of movement. An instant later, the girls are back in their places – minus the girl that fell.
Matilda makes a small, startled sound. “Yeah, okay. This place officially gives me the creeps. Let’s get through this fast.”
James pushes forward through the milling crowds. “I agree.”
They soon find the central square, filled with barkers, booths and games of chance.
“Holy shit—”
Matilda points to a pit boss and his security guards as they manhandle a gambler – presumably an accused cheat – and summarily drag him behind one of the tents. There are sounds of a brief, savage struggle. Spatters of red stain the canvas.
Matilda’s whole body tenses, a snake coiling to strike. “What the fuck is wrong with this place?” she hisses, edging closer to James.
James leads them past another group of performers, making certain that the Scry is still close at his side.
“It’s like some sort of competition ground. Everyone’s vying for a top spot. Hoping to get noticed by Hank”
He watches as the pit crew returns from behind the tent flap, unceremoniously wiping blood off their blades. Matilda tracks them intently, hand twitching towards her own arsenal of sheathed steel, but James extends a restraining arm.
“We’re not here for that.”
Matilda backs down but vents her anger, tracking the progress of the killers across the square with her eyes.
“This place is sick. These people are sick. Hank is fucking sick.”
James finds his own muscles tensing as the words leave her mouth. From the look on Matilda’s face, she clearly doesn’t care if she’s heard. The same can’t be said for everyone else in the town center.
The entire crowd has stopped all performances as one, staring at the Taciturn and Scry. The boisterous gathering is now completely silent.
The throng parts to make way for a man holding a golden scepter and ornate purple robes. He’s followed by a medieval-themed entourage. Mockingly, the leader claps as he steps forward, giving James and Matilda a displeased look.
“Well, well, well. Look at these two. Making it all the way to the top in less than a day. Quite a trend. A fucking sensation on the platform, it would seem.”
Matilda snorts, and lets out a jeering laugh.
“This is Hank?!” She half-turns to face James in disbelief.
James shifts his body, his hand poised to go for his holster.
“No. For Christ’s sake, no. I have no clue who this idiot is.”
Insulted, the leader puffs out his chest.
“It doesn’t surprise me that two people who climbed up so fast don’t know enough to honor those who came before them. I’m Bill the Magnificent. You’ll be better off if you learn to respect that name.”
Matilda and James share an unimpressed look. The Scry has already unsheathed one of her blades. It gleams in one rock-steady hand.
“And why exactly should we do that?”
Bill puffs his chest yet again and motions to the gathering crowd of onlookers.
“I am one of Hank’s Dukes, and a three-time recipient of the King’s Banner of Recognition!”
Bill tugs on a bright red sash that adorns his already-garish raiment.
“They were given to me by the King himself, in recognition of my excellence!”
Bill looks past Matilda and James, addressing the crowd in its entirety, filling his lungs for a good shout.
“Let this be a sign to all the products of the Spire. Through your own deeds, you can lift yourself up. The path is hard, but not without rewards!”
Matilda subtly shifts her grip on the handle of her knife.
“Is that right?”
Letting go of his sash, Bill returns his attention to the Taciturn and Scry. He lowers his voice so the crowd at large can’t hear.
“Yes, I’m right hand to the King. So, you two want to slow your trending and learn your place.”
Matilda steps towards Bill and points at his sash. “Seems to me that if everyone’s so focused on these Banners of Bullshit, no one is busy trying to dethrone your precious King.”
Bill’s face turns red with indignation.
“What the hell would you know about it, girl? You haven’t even been here one day! Someday I’ll be Hank’s successor, and I’ll let you pass over my dead body.”
Bill the Magnificent unsheathes an ostentatiously-ornamented sword and his guards step forward. Brandishing weapons ranging from maces to spiked cudgels to crossbows, they form ranks, blocking the path to the castle.
James takes several steps backwards.
“This doesn’t have to end this way…”
But something blurs past James before he can finish.
In a flash, Matilda is already plunging her blades into the nearest mace-bearing guard. He dies before his face can even register surprise. With a growl, she lunges for the next one, who makes one clumsy parry with his cudgel and never uses it again. Recoiling in gibbering terror, Bill the Magnificent hastily falls back behind his sworn swords.
In those first few seconds of one-sided butchery, the only sound is that of the struggle between Matilda and Bill’s guards. The crowd stands rooted in stunned silence. They look on aghast as Matilda carves her way through the first few guards without opposition. No words are spoken. James calls out, but Matilda continues her onslaught. The people in the crowd gawp at one another then back at Matilda’s relentless assault on Bill’s court.
And then, a single voice blurts what everyone is thinking.
“If she kills Bill, Hank will need a new Duke—”
It takes a few seconds for the utterance to sink in – but it’s the match that ignites the powder-keg. A knife juggler looks at a clown next to him and unceremoniously shoves his blades in the other entertainer’s chest. A few more seconds of silence pass as everyone comprehends what has just happened. Suddenly, a mime grabs a spear from the second of the fallen guards and hurls it at a dancer from spitting-distance. With the impact, the rest of the square explodes into chaotic violence as each costumed reveler simultaneously sees a golden, wild-eyed opportunity to soar through the ranks of the Spire, surging up the trending-ratings on a geyser of opportunity, ambition and blood.