Disorder in the Court

“What news of the war, stranger?”

How often in the last few weeks had Sylvester heard that same question? Countless. He cared nothing for this war, a meaningless struggle for power between the King and the King-maker. Neither party had the moral high ground, it was just a matter of strength and influence. This whole conflict, body count and all, is a popularity contest. Sylvester chuckled at the thought.

With a great clanging and jingling of bells, the fool meandered down the dirt road before him, searching for where he was needed most. Salvar was at war, and could use all of the laughs he could offer. The difficulty, it seemed, was finding a willing audience. The last three towns that Sylvester had passed through had been veritable ghost towns. Of course, people still lived there, but the streets were empty, windows shuttered and doorways boarded up. There was little trust in these places for an anonymous wanderer, and even less goodwill. No one here would trade room and board for a night of jesterly servitude.

Before too long, Sylvester caught sight of a castle in the distance. Although it was just a spot on the horizon, the building represented something that was very dear to the fool: food. Quickening his pace ever-so-slightly, he began humming a lively tune.

War or no war, tonight there will be great feasting and much merriment in that there castle, Sylvester mused. He took pride in his work, and figured that at the very least he would manage some bread and a few chuckles.

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“Halloa! Fool’s ahoy! Any at home up there?”

Sylvester had made his way all the way to the castle, and had yet to see any signs of life. The only signal that the castle was occupied was the plethora of multicolored banners flying from the parapets. The fool currently stood before the upraised drawbridge, yelling for the turnkey. He was perched above the edge of the moat, with his hands on his hips and his left foot tapping impatiently (a behavior which was punctuated by the tinkling of bells every time his shoe hit the dirt). After a few moments, a head appeared from around one of the chains of the drawbridge.

“State your name and what business brings you to Paxton Keep. Your life depends on it.”

Sylvester immediately became animated at the appearance of an audience, and hastened to introduce himself. “I, sirrah, am Sylvester the Jester. Let down your drawbridge and I will rape your women, loot your treasury, and murder your lord. If you believe that, you are more a fool than I, for anyone can see I am unarmed and mean you and your ken nothing more malicious than a stomach cramp.” He punctuated his introduction with a theatrical bow, doffing his cap and waving it to his imaginary fans.

The baffled turnkey shouted, “You will wait right there.” Then his head once more disappeared from view. After several minutes, the drawbridge lowered and Sylvester was met halfway across by a fully armed soldier. “Sylvester the fool, I am the master of the guard. The noontide meal has just begun. Follow me to the dining room.” The master of the guard turned on his heel and walked very stiffly into the castle and through a series of doors and passageways, until he opened a final door, a heavy thing made of one solid piece of wood, and ushered Sylvester through.

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An hour later, and lunch was over. Sylvester had juggled, danced, told stories, and recited so many off-color jokes that the lady of the house’s face had acquired a semi-permanent blush, all to rave reviews. He had not yet partaken in the meal, having been busy performing, and as the members of the castle’s household began to file out of the large dining hall, he scanned the long wooden tables around him in search of leftovers. Immediately he snatched up a large leg of turkey and planted himself in a high-backed wooden arm chair. Taking a gulp of whatever the chair’s previous occupant had been drinking from a pewter goblet, Sylvester smiled. Success was always welcome.

Suddenly a gauntleted hand was on Sylvester’s shoulder. It was placed there with such force that it caused the jester to spray the liquor from his mouth, all over the courtiers filing past. He received several dirty looks and a few violent oaths, but he ignored them and sprang from his seat to see his would-be assailant. It was the master of the guard, and he looked slightly amused at Sylvester’s startled antics. “Ah, friend,” Sylverster said, “No need for stealth. What would you have me do?” The armsman’s smile vanished and he said gruffly, “Jester, I will tell you again to follow me.”

This journey was much shorter than the last, being only to the head of the lord’s table rather than across the entire keep. The guard led Sylvester over to where the head of household say, dressed in fine fabrics and still picking over the carcass of a wild boar that rested on the table before him. The jester stood in front of the lord’s table for five whole minutes, and still he went unnoticed. He must have forgotten me, Sylvester thought. He cleared his throat just to be sure.

The lord looked up at the sound. He saw the jester standing by his table and smiled, not a smile of joy but a contemptuous sneer. “Sylvester, you say your name is, fool?”

“Yes, mas. I’s Sylvester the fool, I live to serve the likes of you.”

The sarcasm was obviously lost on the lord, who was likely used to being addressed as such by his servants and slaves. “From whence to you hail, Sylvester? Who is your lord and what court does he hold?”

Sylvester was beginning to see where this conversation was going, but he had no way of backing out now. “M’liege, my sovereign is the open road and he holds court wherever there is joy, laughter and plenty to drink.”

A fist gloved in fine silk slammed the heavy wooden table. “A vagrant! Likely, I suppose. A spy? Just as likely!” A cruel glint appeared in the eyes of this strange lord. “Hendrick, please show this man to his room. We will show him all the necessary hospitalities. Surely he will not be wanting for a roof over his head, or a safe place to sleep.” He waved his hand and went back to his pork, dismissing them in favor of more important matters. Sylvester was about to protest when he was struck on the back of the head with something very heavy and very, very hard. With a sigh and a jingle of bells, his body crumpled to the ground.

Petite foot prints in the snow made their way long the path towards a town just bordering the farmland. A pair of feet continued to make the tracks in the white fluffy stuff from the sky, crunching beneath the weight of their owner. They stop with a ‘romp, romp’ as they just enter the town, and just like an old western movie a wind blows through the town carrying snow with it, lifting the bottom part of the cape from the newcomers cloak revealing very feminine looking legs belonging to none other than someone who is very much a woman.

Pale green eyes scanned the town in search of a place to rest. As they searched the little gingerbread house shaped buildings with puffs of smoke coming from their chimneys signifying warmth was within them, their attention soon turned towards the castle not too far from the town. The little female assassin tilted her had looking at the stone walls which would have looked cold, matching the weather around it, if it weren’t for the colourful banners around it.
Studying the imposing feat of architecture her mind drifted to her employer’s request.

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It felt awkward to be standing in the middle of a nobleman’s lounge. She had never seen such decorative furniture. All the cabinets were had ebony boarders around their doors with some floral embossed carvings which could only have been an influence from Akashima. The young woman knew that this wasn’t uncommon for nobility to show off their most prized and obviously most expensive pieces within their own quarters. She wasn’t used to seeing these extravagant looking things, and only vaguely remembering being so close to them as a child. Her somewhat nostalgic thoughts were interrupted by a commanding voice.

“I see you are the assassin I requested?” he asked as he walked around to sit at a large and very comfortable looking chair behind the redwood desk she was standing in front of.

Her cloaked head nodded and bowed to him. Nodding he handed her a rough drawing of her target along with a name.

“Take note you are now a loyalist to Salvar’s king,” he reminded her along with betrayal means death.

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Opening her eyes after her thoughts interrupted by children who ran past her on their way home for lunch; she tilted her head watching them she remembered her first priority, find a place to stay warm up and plan the last part of her assignment.

Starting up her walk once again she made her way into a local inn. Making her way past the fur coated people she finally got inside feeling the warmth of being inside a heated space. Looking around, she found basically the same general scene most inns displayed: the regular worker taking his end of day break celebrating a job well done or a birthday of one of thier co-workers, the occasional rich man having his night – sometimes away from the wife - with the wenches and sometimes the sported whore.

She stood in front of the counter and looked at the woman. “May I have a room please?” she asked yelling over the noise. Receiving a nod from the messy haired brunette she held out a book for her to sign in turning to get her a key.

The young assassin found the blank space on the end of the page and signed her name neatly:

Yin-Li Chen

Picking up her key she nodded to the woman leaving the fare for a one night stay at the inn before making her way up the stairs and to her room. She knows that once darkness settles over the land she would leave to finish her job off.