Tiny taloned feet jumped along the cracked concrete. For hundreds and hundreds of leagues stretching, there were dilapidated and destroyed roads. Small mountains of concrete, brick, and metal rubble lined them. Husks of buildings, empty, dusty, and lifeless, were scattered for miles. Some stretched and grasped at the sky, while others were humble and closer to the ground. The humble buildings, likely the ancient shelters of families, were clustered together into what were likely small communities. Metal poles with lights that no longer worked framed the intersections of these roads, their colored lenses dimmed. If one searched long and hard, passed the concrete graveyards and giant steel corpses, passed the empty, veiny, paved roads, and passed the limp limbs that were once harbors on the shoreline, one could find purple mountain majesties and amber waves of grain tucked away in little pockets of lively greenery.
Behind that tiny taloned sparrow, an old man, hunched and tired, followed. He wore a mesh of baggy, dark grey cloth that covered him like a robe. His sleeves were broad and deep, and a tiny tail of tattered cloth trailed behind him as he walked. He clasped a rugged column of wood, one that could almost be mistaken for a tree branch. It hooked at the top, and from that hooked top hung a black, iron bird cage, just large enough to snuggly hold a sparrow. As the pair, the old man and the bird, walked together, not a single footprint was left in the unyielding concrete. The couple had passed an intersection, and beyond that intersection there was only a single strip of road, serpentine as it ran through the eye of the rising sun.
As the pair continued their trek through that winding road, the old man stopped. Still in the ruins of an ancient city, a metal bench sat on the side of the road. The old man shuffled towards the strip of black metal and took a seat. His trembling right hand, with accentuated, swollen knuckles, reached into the depths of his opposite sleeve. He pulled out a curled sheet of board, the equivalent of paper fashioned from salvaged cardboard boxes, and unfurled it. His wrinkled eyes squinted as the sheet was brought closer and closer to his face. He deftly rolled it up and stashed it in his sleeve again. His tiny bird companion hopped with fluttering wings onto his lap, chirping furiously. The old man extended a calloused and dirty finger towards the bird as he murmured, "Passer, deliciae meae puellae."
The man and his bird continued down the ruin, the morning just behind them, nipping at their heels.
The high noon sun reflected off the old man's bald head, and beads of sweat slid down his long, wiry, graying beard. The old man lurched down the wide concrete pathway, soldiers encased in carapace (a material that combines assorted leather, hard plastics, and thin metal) lining the grassy road to an ornate, ancient building. Rectangular, spires at every corner, the style of the building appears to predate even the dilapidated towers of the Old World. The patchwork army, armed with makeshift spears, marched in formation, hours before the lawn would be covered in ambassadors and merrymakers. The soldiers let the old man take his drawn out steps and struggle up the stairs, beyond the toppled statue (sans a plaque), and to the doors of the building.
As the doors closed behind him, King Dowager Pompey sauntered down the stairs in his royal regalia. A crown glittered atop his head, with a red cape trailing behind him. He shouted to the old man, his arms wide open, "Welcome, Magister! You arrive early for the ceremonies, but my court is happy to accommodate you."
The sparrow jumped in his cage hanging from the old man's staff. The old man replied, "I'm not here for the ceremonies, Pompey."
Pompey stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Then to what business do we owe this occasion, Magister...?"
The old man, his gaunt face scrunching, continued marching towards Pompey, his staff striking the floor with every stride. "You know my name, Pompey. You also know why I'm here."
Pompey, his round, bald face twisted in a wry grin, began to walk beside the old man up the stairs. "Really? I think I might have heard of you... Cat... Catil..."
"Catullus." The old man dryly interjected. At the top of the stairs, Catullus took a left, marching up another small flight of stairs, Pompey's cape flapping behind him.
"That's quite a Roman name; are you from here, then?" Pompey jogged to Catullus's side enthusiastically.
"I have taken the name of the author whose work it is my duty to memorize and translate." Catullus stomped down the empty halls, covered with outlines where paintings and busts used to rest.
"That's quite interesting, I never knew-"
"I've told it to you every time I've seen you." Catullus interrupted. The sparrow remained quiet and still, rocking back and forth as his cage swung with the staff.
"Really? When did we first meet?" Pompey asked, as he and his visitor's steps echoed in the entirely vacant building.
"I raised you." Catullus commented.
"Really? I'd think I'd know the name of someone to whom I owe so much." Pompey retorted.
Catullus turned to Pompey, while his eyes, wrapped in wrinkled skin, met Pompey's for the first time that day. He exclaimed, "Fuck you." He kept walking.
Pompey sped ahead of him and opened an lavishly carved, if ancient and peeling, wooden door. The two walked in to a round, panoramic room. The room's furniture was clearly never replaced and, miraculously, it didn't need to be. The chairs were shifted to the side to allow a center aisle leading to the luxurious throne, which was the only addition to the room. Looking up, one could see the balcony, where common folk with money could observe the king make his declarations; however, usually blue bloods would be the ones sitting in those benches.
Pompey gingerly closed the door behind him, "Gods damn it, Catullus."
Catullus, walking down the center aisle, shouted, "It's your fault."
Pompey raised his voice, "It's my fault that the people will throw a fit if they think I appointed a Magister?"
Catullus walked into one of the front rows, "For one, they won't throw a fit; they'll grumble and groan and go home. For two, a Magister has always been an advisor."
"The king never had a Magister as an advisor."
Catullus cackled, and his sparrow chirped wildly. "You hold his place no less than three times, he dies in war, you marry his daughter, and you wear his clothes, and you still call him king."
Pompey followed Catullus into the aisle, removing the crown from his head. He stared at himself in the warped, tinted reflection before he tossed it on the chair next to him. He wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow and plunged himself on a seat next to Catullus. He picked up the shimmering crown again, feeling its weight in his sweaty palms. He scratched at the golden chains holding his mantle and cape before unfastening them, letting them slump and furl into the chair. He looked up at the old man staring down at him and asked, "These clothes are hot and itchy, and the crown is heavy. How does anyone wear this?"
Catullus placed his swollen, veiny hand on his shoulder. He sat down in the chair next to him and replied, "He doesn't wear it in an empty building."
Pompey shook his head, and the two shared a moment of silence. Catullus spoke up again, asking, "Now, where are my quarters? My bird needs to breathe." Catullus wiggled his fat finger between the bars of the bird cage; the bird grew to attention as he gently pet its underside.
In that same room, revelry and music filled the air. The sun had yielded to the mystery of the moon and stars; the Fates are known to work at night.
The new king of Albany, King Pompey II, sat on the dais around his throne, with his new wife, Queen Julia, beside him. Pompey drank, welcomed powerful friends and ambassadors to approach and talk, lingered around to chat, and sang to the tunes of the band playing on the balcony with everyone else, the praetor always standing by his side. Queen Julia the First sat on the dais.
Visitors of note came from across the continent to view the spectacle, the crowning of a new king after the glorious but fearsome reign of the Wandering King. Any Albanian noble worth his or her garb would make the trek to see a new king being crowned, whether it took hours or weeks to arrive. Many Midlanders, those from the Land of a Thousand Kings, had made their way; more than anyone expected, anyway. They remained largely in their huddles in the corners of the room, but the bigger names among them sought audience with the King. They didn't understand that coming to a wedding only for business is rude... unless they were invited to. For such a long journey, it was peculiar to see so many of them arrive. The native born speculated their business in whispers, and the conjectures became more outrageous as they lingered around the room.
No souls from the South showed their faces, and few beyond the Mississippi bothered to arrive. Freelanders had little stake in the East, though a few from the Westernelles could be seen, sucking the room dry of drink. Her lack of status both revealing and concealing, a renowned medicine woman had attended the ceremonies; she was invited for the tournament which would take place the next day. The wounds inflicted in that tournament could not be healed by the Fates let alone medicine, but that's for another time.
At the height of the evening, King Pompey II disappeared to a backroom, leaving his new wife behind. Whatever he was engaged in, it was not love making tonight. The party continued under the new king's nose.
It was a wedding, and from the outside in, one could find little amiss with it. Instruments of the Fates lurked in the crowd that night, however, and the Fates are unmatched in sleight of hand.
Wayne had been invited to participate in the tournament the next day, as the final event. To anyone who didn't know his opponent, it was an exciting honor to display one's talent at the most closely watched tournament in the East. To the few that did, mostly King Pompey, his guard, and the queen, it was anything but.
No one else from the Kingdom of Wayne had arrived in Albany; rumors of the affairs to be negotiated between Albany and the Midlands floated freely around the Midlands, and many left the talking to the selected ambassadors. Either way, it was not his business to pry, but he could try if he liked. Other Midlanders, to whom the event was a private meeting of foreign affairs, would likely be disinclined to give information to another city state. He was free to walk around as he pleased and attempt to find someone to chat up, but unraveling is often difficult with the itching feeling that one is being watched... and followed. That feeling nipped at Eli no matter where he went that night.
Queen Julia, with her round cheeks and button nose, fidgeted in her seat as if she were bound. She could do naught but stare into the crowd, as few would be inclined to approach the king's wife on their wedding night. If Eli kept a keen eye, he might see on occasion Queen Julia, in her youthful beauty, her loose, forest green dress, her plump eyes, alabaster skin, and pursed lips, looking directly at him before averting her gaze back to her lap.
Columbia's representation at the Albanian wedding consisted of a few lightly armed men and the prestigious ambassador Gregor Conrad. Conrad was from Chicago and a popular figure among most of the city states of the Midlands and was considered the most suitable representation of the region. He was aging and rugged, with a scar across his cheek from a crossbow bolt. The St. Louis area does not look upon him favorably, and so they advocated to have another group arrive separately to make their own arrangements. This group was led by High Councilor Ells of Blackwater.
A couple other ambassador groups from the Midlands had arrived, representing fledgling states that preferred tighter control of their representation, but the most widely known and highly regarded were the representatives from Blackwater and the ones backing Thrall Conrad from Chicago.
Stumbling through the crowds was a miserly old man with a bird cage hanging from a staff; he was easily recognizable as a Magister by his robes and as an official in Albany by his liberal use of his staff. He was not a sociable man. He appeared to be handling all of the behind-the-scenes affairs at the wedding, and if one sought to ask questions, he might be the best one to ask. Or the worst.
Alejandra was largely subject to the whim of Thrall Conrad for the evening, as was the rest of the party. He was not intent on releasing information to his armed guards, especially not in public. He did not permit his armed guards to drink, socialize, or partake in other forms of revelry; they represented the entirety of the Midlands, and the negotiations would hinge upon their behavior. Conrad walked swiftly and quickly, with the tail of his animal pelt robe flowing quickly behind him. Conrad eventually found himself a seat at a table and reviewed his notes, his armed guards left to their boredom.
As the king disappeared for the evening, the old Magister with the staff approached the group of representatives. One young, oblivious young guard was whacked with the old man's staff, as he was standing in his way. He fumbled into view of Conrad, blocking casting a shadow over him and his notes. His beard hanging from his craned neck, he declared, "The king is prepared to see you, old fart."
Conrad quickly stood straight up, towering over the tiny old man, and rolled up his notes. He raised his firm, muscled hand, almost to strike, and placed it on the old man's shoulder. "Thank you, older fart." he replied, and began marching towards the back of the room. One of his armed guards, the same who was hit with the staff, gave the Thrall a quizzical look, to which Conrad replied, "You'll understand when you're old."
Blackwater's representation came in the form of High Councilor Ells, a representative selected by St. Louis, who was unsatisfied with the selection of Gregor Conrad. Thrall Conrad was from Chicago and known for a battle which he led against St. Louis; consequently, St. Louis elected to request another representative who also came from along the Mississippi.
A couple other ambassador groups from the Midlands had arrived, representing fledgling states that preferred tighter control of their representation, but the most widely known and highly regarded were the representatives from Blackwater and the ones backing Thrall Conrad from Chicago.
Stumbling through the crowds was a miserly old man with a bird cage hanging from a staff; he was easily recognizable as a Magister by his robes and as an official in Albany by his liberal use of his staff. He was not a sociable man. He appeared to be handling all of the behind-the-scenes affairs at the wedding, and if one sought to ask questions, he might be the best one to ask. Or the worst.
Ells' entire armed guard was from Blackwater, and he felt welcome to confide in his men the secrets of their meeting as a result. According to the terms given to him from St. Louis, his men were not allowed to drink or partake in any revelry which might reflect poorly on St. Louis and the other city states represented by Ells; a look across the room to Conrad's guard confirmed that they were also under the same constraints.
The Fates had their hands in every affair that took place that night, and as a result, Pykes' foresight was quite hazy, an effect only worsened by the sound of chatter and music. The sensation was comparable to stuffed sinuses, and it gave Pykes a crippling feeling of grogginess.
The sound of rattling metal could be heard behind him as the old man with the staff stumbled past him to see Councilor Ells. Across the room, Conrad's group had walked into a room behind the dais. The old man declared to Ells, "You will see the king shortly after he is finished with Conrad. He'll be swift, I'm sure."
The two men chatted briefly outside of Pykes' ears, though the conversation sounded trifling. Shortly after, the old man moved on to speak with others in the crowd, and little was seen of him since. Pykes and Ells would have to wait to see the king.
Bern was recognized among the nobles for the night. He was allowed to mingle with the other high born of Albany for a time, though he was sent a special invitation to this wedding, implying that there were other reasons that his presence was requested.
Despite his recognized status as a high born in his native land again, the melancholy was inescapable. It had been so long since he'd been here, and, though it was his home to him, it was not where he was raised. He could not put names to faces or faces to names, and no one could do so for him. It was where he belonged now, though, and he would have to make home out of it somehow.
Something tapped his shoulder. It could not be mistaken for a brush or a bump; someone wanted his attention. In the shuffling of the crowd, no one seemed to be responsible. The door to the room was quickly slammed behind him. The chattering of the crowd seemed farther and farther away as the door slamming rang in his ears. He was compelled to follow. He could hear footsteps on the balcony above.
The contrast was conspicuous. A simple medicine woman in the buzzing hive of nobles and ambassadors was both hidden and on display. She attracted many quizzical looks, though little conversation. Some decided to speak with her, bringing their speech to what they thought would be the commoner's level. The less patient and compassionate would find it insulting.
She was requested to attend tournament and heal the injured, if necessary. Her presence would not be necessary, but to the simple people who would be participating, it would be comforting knowing that there would be a medicine woman present; unbeknownst to them, medicine men and women can do little for missing heads.
The only one that seemed as lonely and secluded as her was Queen Julia. The bride, the one to whom the wedding night belongs, was alone on the dais, while her husband took care of other affairs. She sat alone, fidgeting in her seat with a filled cup of wine far out of her reach. Never was there a more sorry queen.
Her time was open, though medicine women can also do little to mend broken hearts; there were others of note to speak to. Up on the balcony was the Purple Piper, the Trade of all Jacks, the Tricker of Tricksters. As the king's long time court jester and herald, it was his duty to provide entertainment, and he was busy conducting the band in all its glory. The music halted for a break, and the most famed prankster East of the Mississippi proudly loomed over the reception.
Augustus was quite busy the entire night; he spent much of the night speaking with other high born, discussing the affairs of their respective lands. He had met a particularly interesting man from Maine who had found a shipwrecked boat full of soldiers that appeared to be sailing for Nova Scotia. There were many people to see and appreciate at the party, and Augustus was open to all of them.
The emptiness that pervades all of these events sunk in, eventually. After a while, the drink looked less refreshing and the people less interesting. Augustus remembered the letter in his pocket, sealed with a Magister's seal, reminding him of his greater purpose.
Stumbling through the crowds was a miserly old man with a bird cage hanging from a staff; he was easily recognizable as a Magister by his robes and as an official in Albany by his liberal use of his staff. He was not a sociable man. He appeared to be handling all of the behind-the-scenes affairs at the wedding, and if one sought to ask questions, he might be the best one to ask. Or the worst.
Eventually, the old man had his eyes set on Augustus, and he began limping towards him as quickly as his staff would carry him. The bird cage rattling on the end of his staff became louder and louder as he approached before he was right in front of his face.
The old man looked up at Augustus as if he was in his way, and his quivering hands looked ready to smack him with his stick. He muttered and grumbled to himself right in front of him, as if he weren't there. It became more and more awkward as the old Magister clearly confronted Augustus but said more to himself than he did to him. After much agonizing silence, he demanded, "Alright, give me the letter and follow me. I know who you are because I know who I sent for. Don't bother asking questions here, I can't hear for shit."
He turned and walked away as swiftly as he could, which is very slowly. For whatever reason, the Magister had confidence that Augustus would be behind him.