Chapter Text
Saturday – the day of revelry for toiled men and women of battle or worship for those faithful to the Holy Light. However, the past few weeks in Hamlet were far from rejoicing. The last expedition cost the Heiress her main tactician and the team lost their overseer – Barristan, an old, wretched thing of a man. Life has tested him greatly but, fortunately, Death was more merciful.
Those who went for a drink to the tavern found little joy at the bottom of their pints. Death was no rarity here, but it was different when it took the man who both strived to avenge and bothered to protect. Even though it had been a couple of weeks, the heavy atmosphere hadn't cleared yet. Dismas carved something nonsensical and profane on the table. Boudica didn’t bother to arm-wrestle hill-billies from the nearby farms. Audrey played some variation of darts in grave silence. The rest loitered while Junia and Reynauld prayed for his soul.
Sarmenti sat at his usual corner and seemed not so different from his usual self. His rhythm was a little faulty, though, and his fingertips stammered when knocking on his tambourine. He paid no notice when Alhazred came in with slightly more oomph in his step than the rest of the rooster had in their whole bodies.
“Mister Jester, have you fallen asleep while playing?” he asked, looking at him attentively, as if he actually thought it's possible.
Sarmenti awoke from his drowse. “Nah, just was coming up with another verse. About the Heiress, you know." He cleared his throat.
“She's pesty and petty
Like mice on a ferry.”
“How do you like it?" The Jester was not in the mood for discussing anything, really. But he took a liking to Alhazred, who was new here and thus less boring and… depressing.
“Not very much, to be honest…" Alhazred seemed upset with his own feelings about the verse. He added in a loud, hissing whisper, “Anyway, a new coach arrived!” Being new here also meant getting easily excited over nothing, Sarmenti figured.
“Oh, please." Sarmenti waved hands at him dismissively. “The only ones coming are retired rouges and cast-out monks. Who cares.” He rolled his head dramatically and turned his gaze to the other wall of the tavern so as to look uninterested, but gossip was the only kind of news in Hamlet, so he kept listening.
The Occultist knew better than to be taken in by the Jester’s mannerisms. He took a nearby chair and moved it next to Sarmenti. “Oh, no. You won’t believe it. I didn’t either, at first, but I went to see for myself! So, everyone was busy, and the Heiress needed some help with the stagecoach, so I volunteered..."
“Climbing the career ladder, aren’t we,” Sarmenti spoke with feigned admiration.
“Let me finish," Alhazred interrupted him, taking no notice of Jester’s prickly words and sitting down. “There were, as usual, all sorts of scoundrels and rascals, but the Heiress turned them all down. She hired only one of them and, oh, what a man it wa-"
Alhazred was stopped mid-sentence by the door being vigorously opened by one of the city guards. The Heiress walked in, with more triumph than there should have been, taking into consideration how unsuccessful the last mission was.
A mountain of a man followed her very slowly to match her speed. A wilted white cowl covered his head and shoulders, covering part of the dull lustre of his armour beneath. On his broad shoulder rested a gigantic broadsword rested on his shoulder with a missing tip, showing obvious disrepair. His posture was as straight as the sword he carried, but his head hung low, almost mournfully, so you couldn’t see his face. The lady turned on her heels and the mountain of flesh turned as well and rested the tip of his sword in the wooden planks of the floor. Together, they were facing the gathered lot now.
“My soldiers!” the Heiress addressed the present heroes. “Barristan will forever be an irreparable loss for us, let him rest in peace,” she said a bit bureaucratically. “But we live on, and so does our cause. Meet our latest addition to the team." With her arm, she indicated the man beside her. “His name is Baldwin. A paladin, who chose to join us in our noble pursuit. Let him be your brother in battle.” She lowered her hand. Baldwin raised his head only to drop it in a tiny saluting bow. “He’s an educated officer, listen well to his words.”
The centre of the tavern was more well-lit and allowed the gathered lot to examine the newcomer further. Besides a cape and a cuirass, he wore a brass mask, covering the upper half of his face, leaving narrow slits for the eyes, which gave him a focused and contemplative expression. Masks were not as rare as it would seem. Outbreaks of pox, syphilis, and other ailments left many people with even less than a half of a face. What was more interesting was the newcomer’s body being covered in bandages. They were rather clean, so one couldn’t suggest he somehow injured every single one of his limbs, besides, he stood so confidently as if nothing could ever inflict any damage on him.
“Why the elaborate introduction?” Sarmenti interfered in a spiteful tone. “Is his tongue all tied up too?”
“No, I can speak,” Baldwin answered without even lifting his gaze. “I understand you are still aggravated by the death of your comrade. My condolences." After that, he turned back to stone.
“He will dine with you,” the Heiress announced, paying no attention to Sarmenti’s words. “Try not to end up at each other's throats,” she spat, at the doorstep of the tavern.
The reminder of dinner somewhat eased the atmosphere. Everyone started to move furniture – it was customary to have communal Saturday dinners. Nothing fancy, If you don't count sense of belonging as such. By the time they almost finished rearranging the furniture, Junia and Reynauld came too, together with some others, who preferred to spend their holiday in solitude.
Baldwin was given a seat as well. Taken over by curiosity, Sarmenti sat right in front of him, much to others’ surprise, since he preferred either to play or to eat alone. Nobody cared enough to separate a newcomer, who was yet to show what he was capable of, and the biggest pain in the whole town’s arse. Bile accumulated inside the Jester, and he didn’t even lift his mask to pick at the food served.
“Tell us, noble paladin,” he started ingratiatingly, “tell us about your travels. We don’t get to leave the town that often.”
“Desolation and ruin,” he stated without much thought, barely distracted from his meal.
“Hmm, I see." Sarmenti made a pondering look. “You know what they always say, it’s good there where we are not."
Baldwin didn’t answer. The man’s indifference rubbed Sarmenti the wrong way. Another shot.
“Oh, but you surely alleviated others’ plight, didn’t you?” he asked, soaking each word in poison before saying it out loud. “Tell us about your feats."
“By mercy and love, truth and fidelity, iniquity is purged out of the heart,” he answered.
“Ah, a worshipful preacher, a defender of faith,” Sarmenti snickered. “And these bandages of yours must be some Holy Scriptures?” He leaned closer to the table and curved his body so as to look the man in the eye.
“Quite a foolish assumption, really."
Something clicked in the Jester's mind, like an activated trap. “Well, well, well. You have a taste for punch-down comedy, eheheheheh," he tittered, feeling something inside of him revving up. He darted his concealed eyes at a loose scrap of bandage on the paladin’s wrist. “What a sharp tongue."
“Pardon me, I didn't consider –” the man tried to explain himself.
Sarmenti didn't listen. “Praised be the gods above, because I haven't shaved my a-"
“That’s unnecessary, really,” Junia interrupted him with a bang on his back. “What’s wrong with you?” she scolded Sarmenti beneath her breath.
“I’ve had enough,” Baldwin grunted, clenching his fists in irritation. “Thank you for the meal, it was a pleasure…"
He started standing up but was brought to a halt by a dirk pinning the loose bandage to the table. The Jester’s hand was squeezing the handle and his fingers were fidgeting as if holding back actually hurt him.
“EHEHE. Oh, nothing, really, sister Junia. Our Holy Father is scared of forgetting his next sermon, ehehehe,” Sarmenti giggled on the verge of bursting out with laughter.
“I am no priest,” Baldwin said, without losing his spirit. “Bandages conceal my ailment – leprosy. Now release me, there is no need for any of this." His frown grew deeper, turning into a scowl.
“Ahahaha! A poor beggar with a leprosy becoming a knight of the Light?” Sarmenti mocked, feeling blood leaving the knuckles of his hand. “Sounds a bit unlikely."
“I am no beggar,” he enunciated sharply, “I was a king once." Then he reached his free hand to seize the dagger pinning his bandage to the table. But the Jester was faster and quickly pulled out the blade and clutched it to his chest as if the man promised to take it away and use it against him.
“Thank you,” Baldwin stood up and bowed to the gathered, who had been keeping their eyes on the two for the past few minutes, then left.
Sarmenti kept clenching the handle, stunned by the sudden announcement and by the promise of physical contact. It all started to make sense for him.
