FF: A Gift from Above, G, (The Queen and the Captain)
Aug 23, 2017 19:04:37 GMT 10
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Post by Idleness on Aug 23, 2017 19:04:37 GMT 10
Series: The Queen and the Captain
Title: A Gift from Above
Rating: G
Event: Frisky Fencing
Words: 713
Summary: In which the Tyran Ambassador is in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The Tyran ambassador, Michel Viteri, bent down to draw a delicate pink bloom toward his face. It was clear to Dove that Master Viteri didn’t want to be in Rajmuat. He was a peevish little man, with a sense of self-importance not commensurate with his abilities. It was plain that he considered being sent to negotiate loans with the child queen of a nearly bankrupt island kingdom to be beneath his dignity. And yet, Dove thought sourly, he wasn’t quite astute enough to see that though insult was likely intended, it was not primarily to him.
And she loathed him for it.
Loathed his arrogant manners, his patronising smiles, and his long-winded (and yet utterly inept) explanations of things she already knew. She loathed his utter mediocrity, and she loathed feigning interest in his opinions and flattering his vanity for the sake of her treasury books.
Of course, from Master Viteri, she kept this all carefully hidden. She had offered to show Master Viteri this particular walk upon learning of his fondness for gardening, and his particular passion for roses.
“I think, your majesty,” drawled Taybur, drawing alongside her, “that you may have just found the leverage we needed.”
Dove raised her eyebrows.
“I hardly believe Tyra will extend the money we’re asking for because I showed the ambassador the Rittevon roses.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
Dove stopped walking. They had strolled away from the good Ambassador, who was so absorbed he wouldn’t have noticed a thing they said, even if they were talking loudly.
“I very much doubt that the Honourable Master Viteri has that kind of influence,” she muttered, dragging on Taybur’s arm and forcing him to turn to face back the way they’d come. “I mean, look at him. Just look!”
“He’s a balding middle-aged man, about average in every way conceivable, wearing very expensive clothes that don’t suit him,” said Taybur, po-faced. “That’s not so unusual.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Sibigat. You know what I mean.”
“I couldn’t possibly know what you mean,” he replied, innocently.
“Oh! You do so. He’s a joke. I can see it; you can see it; the whole sodding court can see it. The Guild Council in Tyra probably thinks this all a good laugh,” she groused, and then giggled in spite of her determination to be cross.
She glanced up at her guard and noticed his attention had been captured by something. Taybur had cast his eyes upward, shading them with his hand. He was frowning slightly. She followed his gaze up and noticed for the first time that they were below Aly’s tower, and they could hear the squalling of her brood through an open window.
And as Dove and Taybur stood there, side by side, Nawat’s arms thrust a squirming pink infant beyond the shutters.
“What on earth is he doing?” said Dove, puzzled.
And then they both blinked dumbly as the infant relieved itself.
“I suppose crows don’t like to foul their own—” started Taybur, when an outraged squawk from amongst the roses drew their attention back to the good ambassador.
Master Viteri was flapping his limbs and trying to wipe himself with an insufficient square of cloth quickly proffered by a hapless aide. The same aide then managed to trip the ambassador in his efforts to assist, sending Master Viteri tumbling into a rose bush. Another aide, perhaps one with a keener sense of self preservation, pointed upward, shouting, as the offending infant was drawn back inside the tower.
Dove struggled to hold back a snort of laughter, even as images of the mortifying apologies she would have to make to that loathsome little man, and pretend to mean, flashed past her mind’s eye. Fury and despair bubbled up and vied equally for prominence over amusement.
A glance at her guard showed Taybur struggling to master himself.
“Ahem. I believe we have a small problem, your majesty.”
“I’ll wring his bloody neck,” said Dove, finally recovering her ability to speak.
“Master Viteri?” Taybur’s voice had the high, strangled quality of someone holding in laughter.
Dove glared at him balefully. She wished!
“You think you’re funny,” she observed, picking up her skirts to move more quickly. Might as well start on those mortifying apologies and get it over with. “I’ll wring Nawat’s neck. Your punishment is to come with me and look serious.”
Title: A Gift from Above
Rating: G
Event: Frisky Fencing
Words: 713
Summary: In which the Tyran Ambassador is in the wrong place at the wrong time.
The Tyran ambassador, Michel Viteri, bent down to draw a delicate pink bloom toward his face. It was clear to Dove that Master Viteri didn’t want to be in Rajmuat. He was a peevish little man, with a sense of self-importance not commensurate with his abilities. It was plain that he considered being sent to negotiate loans with the child queen of a nearly bankrupt island kingdom to be beneath his dignity. And yet, Dove thought sourly, he wasn’t quite astute enough to see that though insult was likely intended, it was not primarily to him.
And she loathed him for it.
Loathed his arrogant manners, his patronising smiles, and his long-winded (and yet utterly inept) explanations of things she already knew. She loathed his utter mediocrity, and she loathed feigning interest in his opinions and flattering his vanity for the sake of her treasury books.
Of course, from Master Viteri, she kept this all carefully hidden. She had offered to show Master Viteri this particular walk upon learning of his fondness for gardening, and his particular passion for roses.
“I think, your majesty,” drawled Taybur, drawing alongside her, “that you may have just found the leverage we needed.”
Dove raised her eyebrows.
“I hardly believe Tyra will extend the money we’re asking for because I showed the ambassador the Rittevon roses.”
“Stranger things have happened.”
Dove stopped walking. They had strolled away from the good Ambassador, who was so absorbed he wouldn’t have noticed a thing they said, even if they were talking loudly.
“I very much doubt that the Honourable Master Viteri has that kind of influence,” she muttered, dragging on Taybur’s arm and forcing him to turn to face back the way they’d come. “I mean, look at him. Just look!”
“He’s a balding middle-aged man, about average in every way conceivable, wearing very expensive clothes that don’t suit him,” said Taybur, po-faced. “That’s not so unusual.”
“Don’t be obtuse, Sibigat. You know what I mean.”
“I couldn’t possibly know what you mean,” he replied, innocently.
“Oh! You do so. He’s a joke. I can see it; you can see it; the whole sodding court can see it. The Guild Council in Tyra probably thinks this all a good laugh,” she groused, and then giggled in spite of her determination to be cross.
She glanced up at her guard and noticed his attention had been captured by something. Taybur had cast his eyes upward, shading them with his hand. He was frowning slightly. She followed his gaze up and noticed for the first time that they were below Aly’s tower, and they could hear the squalling of her brood through an open window.
And as Dove and Taybur stood there, side by side, Nawat’s arms thrust a squirming pink infant beyond the shutters.
“What on earth is he doing?” said Dove, puzzled.
And then they both blinked dumbly as the infant relieved itself.
“I suppose crows don’t like to foul their own—” started Taybur, when an outraged squawk from amongst the roses drew their attention back to the good ambassador.
Master Viteri was flapping his limbs and trying to wipe himself with an insufficient square of cloth quickly proffered by a hapless aide. The same aide then managed to trip the ambassador in his efforts to assist, sending Master Viteri tumbling into a rose bush. Another aide, perhaps one with a keener sense of self preservation, pointed upward, shouting, as the offending infant was drawn back inside the tower.
Dove struggled to hold back a snort of laughter, even as images of the mortifying apologies she would have to make to that loathsome little man, and pretend to mean, flashed past her mind’s eye. Fury and despair bubbled up and vied equally for prominence over amusement.
A glance at her guard showed Taybur struggling to master himself.
“Ahem. I believe we have a small problem, your majesty.”
“I’ll wring his bloody neck,” said Dove, finally recovering her ability to speak.
“Master Viteri?” Taybur’s voice had the high, strangled quality of someone holding in laughter.
Dove glared at him balefully. She wished!
“You think you’re funny,” she observed, picking up her skirts to move more quickly. Might as well start on those mortifying apologies and get it over with. “I’ll wring Nawat’s neck. Your punishment is to come with me and look serious.”