Fortunately for Sir Roland, the young Emir had already ordered for the Saracen people of the capital to take up temporary accommodation in a nearby city right after Lucius’s fellows fell into the chasm, so there would be no need to worry about a disgruntled assassin visiting them in the midst of night.

  The players and the Peers were, needless to say, thoroughly drained by the day’s event. Angelica and Astolfo took Roland away to a cottage where he may rest, while the others returned to the—now empty—hotel, where they promptly collapsed and soon slumbered away after a very, very stressful day.

  On the other hand, Lucius was as chipper as one could be. A gentleman required an equally gentlemanly beauty sleep, of course, but first he had some business to settle. Someone needed to deal with the more drab aspects of diplomacy; and with Lucius’s fancy new title as a Peer, who better to represent his group than he?

  Thus, after everyone had fallen asleep, the gentleman organized a meeting with the Emir and a few of Arabia’s influential figures. Some members included the group’s prior guide, Mister Ibn-al-Arabi, as well as a surprising addition: Sir Medoro, Lady Angelica’s lover in the flesh, although the man didn’t seem particularly pleased to be included. He glared at his countrymen and remained silent, the only one spared from his wrath being the Emir himself.

  They all met near a lakeside restaurant with a fantastic view of the city’s center. No chefs were available within the vicinity, so Lucius took up the role himself and cooked a lovely traditional Saracen meal, including flatbreads, stuffed grape leaves, hummus, spiced stew, and kebabs made of a curious desert flower called the Goldsuckle. It tasted like a combination between cactus and ripe oranges.

  “Hoho, you’ve become a master in Arabian cuisine in such short time, Sir Lucius,” Mister Ibn-al-Arabi said in a jolly voice, although hidden underneath was a slight caution. “Forgive us for making you attend to us at this late hour.”

  Lucius smiled and dutifully arranged each person’s meal. “Think nothing of it, my good fellow. It is in moments like these that a hearty meal is most appreciated. I would hate for my group to depart this lovely city in awkward terms, you see. Allow this evening dinner to smooth any tensions that might still linger amongst us.”

  The young Emir nodded and addressed his retinue with a firm tone. “I give my warmest thanks to Lucius of the Peers for arranging this gathering, that we may discuss new alliances and our respective futures. It would do us no good to remain enemies. Sir Roland and I have already settled our differences, so whatever grievances you yet hold, let it fade after the suns’ rise.”

  The Saracen officers whispered amongst themselves, hesitant, but in the end they decided to trust in their leader’s decision and tentatively gave Lucius their full attention.

  “Splendid! I am glad we are all in agreement.” After setting the last of the dishes down, the gentleman extended his arms out in a welcoming gesture and began with his speech. “Now, rest assured that I say this with no ill intent, but we must address your role in this… uncomfortable situation, so to speak. Plotting the assassination of an influential Peer is an offense most grave. Should the Frankish populace hear of this, I’m afraid public perception of the Saracens will deteriorate even further.”

  Mister Arabi stroked his beard slowly and met Lucius’s eyes. “A blunt start, I see. We do not deny it, but I am rather curious about your intentions, Sir Lucius. Do you intend to threaten us?”

  “No, no! Of course not. I, myself, share the young Emir’s vision of a united partnership between Francia and Arabia. However, to do so shall require a plain telling of the facts. Right now, Arabia is no state to engage in another war. Sir Ferragut of the Levantine is dead. Your combative forces have still yet to escape Francia’s shadow. Thus, we should take great care that this incident is not leaked to the public.”

  A different man spoke to this time, a fellow representing Arabia’s guild of commerce. He let out an arrogant laugh and gestured to the city surrounding them. “Our people are stronger than you would have us think, foreigner of another world. Even with the commander’s death, the Levantine still live on through his successor. We hold the cards here — not you.”

  In response to that, however, Sir Medoro scowled. “What right does a blood-sucking merchant have to speak of our army? Besides, I have long severed ties with the Levantine. Ferraù respected my wish to retire, and the only reason I choose now to stand amongst you greedy lot is because of his last will. I shall help only until our forces are in suitable shape. Then, I will involve myself no longer, even if war is to descend upon us again.”

  Medoro and the other officials bickered amongst themselves for a heated moment, before eventually falling silent after a single raise of the hand from the Emir.

  “Calm yourselves, everyone,” the young leader said. “Set aside your pride and take a good look at our nation’s current state. Sir Lucius is correct. We cannot afford aggravating Francia, nor do I wish to shed more of my people’s blood for a needless cause. This land has suffered far enough these past twenty years. If a peaceful solution can be brokered instead, then I would have us listen mindfully.”

  “But my Emirate, should we truly heed this man’s words when we already have a sponsor?” a plump delegate said. “Sir Ganelon has given us a guarantee that Francia will pursue no charges, regardless whether our plot succeeds or fails. I would much rather trust a familiar friend, one who I must remind you all has so generously donated to our recovery efforts, rather than this stranger of bizarre appearance. No offense, of course.”

  “None taken,” Lucius replied. “And indeed, you do make a fine point. Compared to Roland, Sir Ganelon must seem like a saint, so generous and altruistic in his supplies… but gentlemen, there is no such thing as free in this world. Ask yourselves whether Ganelon’s charity is out of sincere good will or merely the precursor for a more nefarious reason. Those who have met him, does he truly seem like the generous type?”

  The Saracen officials rose up from their seats, red-faced and insulted, yet no clear reply left their lips. It was an amusing sight, how they wallowed and refused to think differently of their so-called benefactor. Ganelon had the right idea. All he had to do was throw a couple crates of food and clothes—likely smuggled from Roncevaux Fortress—toward the poverty-stricken Saracens for them to revere him despite his Frankish background.

  “The way I see it? Ganelon would have abandoned you no matter the outcome,” Lucius continued. “Had you succeeded in slaying Francia’s beloved hero, who do you think would shoulder the blame? Who would become a target for the Frankish populace to relieve their righteous anger? The answer is Arabia and all those who call themselves Saracen. After all, every tale needs a villain. It just so happens that you would make a convenient one, and I highly doubt everyone here is deluded enough to think Ganelon would take a different nation’s side rather than his homeland. The same holds true for your failure. Even if Roland tries to confront Ganelon, he’ll merely deflect the issue and claim no involvement in your dealings. What proof is there to claim otherwise? Judging by the High Tribunal’s craftiness, I assume he left no physical traces of his contact with Arabia.”

  The Emir sadly nodded. “We typically received messages relayed through the mouths of his servants. Never did we encounter the same person twice, and they proved their validity with the House Dordognes family crest. We have not a single piece of evidence. Even the supplies he gifted us were held within indistinct, common crates.”

  Lucius chuckled. “Exactly. Ganelon has already considered every possibility and planned accordingly. You are well and thoroughly trapped, my Saracen friends.”

  The gathering lowered their heads and stewed in a shared, bleak silence.

  “... Then what are we to do?” Mister Arabi muttered. “Curses, to think that our every path shall lead to a stabbed back!”

  “Such is the devil’s deal, my friend. What you receive now must inevitably be paid for later in either blood or reputation. However, even if betrayal is inevitable, we can still strike a blow of our own.”

  “How so?”

  Lucius poured himself a cup of tea and slowly sipped the liquid, delighting in the growing tension from the group, before replying in a bold manner, “Simple. We pretend that nothing happened.”

  The gathering stared at him, confused.

  “What do you mean, Sir Lucius?” the Emir asked.

  At first glance, the gentleman’s solution might appear to benefit only Ganelon. He alone remained unscathed, uninvolved in this matter, and not a person would be able to hold him accountable despite being the puppetmaster of this unfortunate predicament, right? Well, that wasn’t entirely true.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “Politics is an intricately entangled web,” Lucius began. “Yet sometimes, all it takes is one little pull to unravel it completely. The simplest solutions are typically the most effective. In our case, we only need to pretend that our visit was an uneventful one. You provided us hospitality as befitting a foreign ensemble and thus we departed without any fuss. This way, no blame can be assigned to either nation. Not a person outside shall ever know what transpired here.”

  Mister Arabi still didn’t seem convinced. “Surely Ganelon would, no? It is likely one of his men had hid within the crowd during our Emirate’s ceremony.”

  “Perhaps, but what of it? For Ganelon to claim otherwise would practically mean admitting his own treachery. He has no justification, no cause to hold Arabia accountable. Even his pastime of spreading rumors will quickly find no ground so long that open trade continues between our nations. Why, we can even bring a few of your delegates back to Francia to show everyone our friendly relationship!”

  Rather than a vague verbal acknowledgement, physical evidence was always what touched the hearts of the people most. They can harbor expectations, be led on through deceitful or manipulative words, but the truth seen by the naked eye would remain with them always.

  A bright light flared in the young Emir’s eyes, and he gently smiled at Lucius’s proposal. “That is a wonderful idea, Sir Lucius. Few Saracens have ever visited the Frankish capital ever since the holy war. With our delegation’s visit, we shall make a strong stance toward peace and impress upon their officials our willingness to forge new bonds. I doubt they will refuse when such a deal would only further both of our economies.”

  Lucius bowed and gave the Emir a respectful gesture. “Exactly. You are wise, indeed.”

  But though they had a clear plan for the future, one obstacle still remained.

  Mister Ibn-al-Arabi furrowed his brow. “I must admit that it sours my mood to allow Ganelon freely avoid repercussion. He has lost nothing. Whilst we had carried out his treacherous ploys, the man watched idly by from where we could never reach.”

  “On the contrary, my friend. This scheme of his shall result in the surrender of his greatest weapon.”

  “A weapon?”

  Lucius grinned. “Trust.”

  Every now and then, there were those who’d appear believing themselves capable of manipulating the vast powers of the world. They lobbied with affluent figures, wealthy merchants, politicians, nobles, and all they could lay their greasy palms on solely for the purpose of making connections—for building trust. They saw people as pieces in a game to be swayed. And for a time they might succeed, but such dealings inevitably made room for arrogance to fester. They forgot their place, overestimated themself. Was it any surprise, then, that their hubris blinded them when such schemes diverged from their expected course?

  Ganelon thought his plan to end in either two ways: with Roland’s death or Arabia’s ruin. Either result would only be to his benefit. So confident was the man that he never considered an alternate outcome.

  That was his folly, as well as the folly of all others like him. People, living beings, those with a conscious will… they always had a tendency to surprise. That was what made them so interesting.

  “He has lost your trust, hasn’t he? That is a greater blow than any physical wound,” Lucius continued. “Ganelon’s authority only applies within the domain of Francia. Should we fellows, and potentially those of other nations such as the Moors, collaborate and join hands, then the High Tribunal will find his influence waning before he can even realize he has been defanged.”

  The gathering brightened in expression as each member contributed their network of possible connections. Some Arabian merchants were quite friendly with the magnates of Moors and the coastal seaside nation of Lombard. Mister Ibn-al-Arabi had even dined personally with the head steward serving under the king of the Saxons. Arabia spared no effort in making alliances with the other nations; but with Francia right on its border, it would have been difficult to move large groups without being noticed. That was… unless they had an insider in the capital.

  A certain newly-appointed Peer who now had the authority to grant them passage.

  “You fine folks appear to have everything figured out,” Lucius said. “My only request, if it wouldn’t be any trouble, is that you speak pleasant things about your encounter with my fellows here today. I always love to make new acquaintances.”

  The gathering cheered in response and bid the gentleman a respectful round of applause. The once-tense atmosphere had been thoroughly replaced by a bright spirit of solidarity and hope, all thanks to Lucius’s stellar public speaking skills. He made for a most convincing orator.

  “Of course, of course! You have been ever a pleasure to converse with, Sir Lucius,” Mister Arabi said with a guffaw. “Yet, I cannot in good conscience support Roland with half-hearted words, even if our Emirate has chosen to forgive.”

  “No need for that, my friend. You need only mention my name.”

  The man’s lips slowly spread out into a sly smile. “I see. Yes, you are a Peer as well. A capable man such as yourself need not be tied down to other factions when you can empower your own, am I understanding correctly?”

  Lucius didn’t fully confirm the man’s musings. Instead, he merely lifted his cup of tea and bid the gathering for one final toast of the night. “To our continued prosperity, my new Saracen friends.”

  “Here, here!”

  Thus, the evening came to a close, and the players and other Peers were none the wiser to the deal brokered by the good Lucius. Let the gentleman handle all the drab diplomatic matters; and if he were to benefit from his new connections, who was to blame him?

  But before he could return to his lounge for a lovely few hours of rest, the young Emir approached him with a curious request once the gathering had dispersed.

  “Sir Lucius, might I ask you for a favor?” the man said.

  Being the polite fellow he was, Lucius bid him speak further with a wave. “My attention is yours.”

  Al-Balijan grinned and led Lucius back toward the lake, where they boarded a small boat and steadily made their way to the Temple Mount. The gentleman had a feeling he knew what the man’s wish was, but he kept his silence and dutifully followed him until the two arrived at the very grounds where they once fought.

  “Sir Lucius… you were holding back before, weren’t you?” the Emir said, walking toward the steps before turning around to face Lucius with a mischievous demeanor. “I felt it in my blades, the tremble of my hands. I won’t ask why you did so. Everyone has their secrets, and it’s perhaps thanks to your guidance that Roland and I could clash with our hearts fully bared. But that is that, and this is this. To become a leader suitable for the cause I would bring to the people of Arabia, I must learn, humble myself, and seek out greater opponents, those of the truly strong. Roland has already taught me much. Now, I seek instruction from you. Please grant me this spar, Sir Lucius. Show me your true strength.”

  Ah, the passion of youth! Who was the gentleman to deny such an eager plea? Thus, he unsheathed his cane sword and gave the Emir a cordial gesture of acknowledgement in the traditional Saracen ways. “The first move is yours, my friend. Prepare yourself as much as you wish.”

  Al-Balijan took a deep breath, and he fluttered his rainbow veil, letting it bask in the moonlight’s glow, before taking a stance and gathering the light around his body. The rainbow grew brighter, more radiant, until Lucius could see naught but a faint colorful blur of what once was the Emir.

  “I know meagre attacks shall never move you,” the young man said. “So I will instill my everything into this one strike. Do not think me unfair, Sir Lucius.”

  “I am a man of my word.” Except for when he wasn’t. “Even if heaven and earth were to split apart this very instant, I would remain standing here, still waiting.”

  The technicolor hue reached its most vibrant. Sparkles of stardust and holy might spilled forth from the Emir’s trembling body. The force pushed down on him; it squashed his breath and caused his eyes to redden. Yet, the man did not stop. He strained his body to its utmost limit, and only when his consciousness was mere moments from collapsing entirely did he raise his blades, steel his expression, and surge forth.

  He flew toward Lucius faster than sound could follow; nay, perhaps even light. To the naked eye it would have seemed as if he vanished into thin air. There were no tricks, no illusions, no mirages to fool the viewer’s senses. The Emir simply exhausted every droplet of his strength to deliver upon his foe a single, devastating strike.

  Yet, in the end, that strike would never come. Before the Emir could even comprehend what just occurred, he found himself flailing through the air, confused, before plunging headfirst into the waters of the lake. Lucius had not attacked him. The young man likely hadn’t even seen him move. In the time it took to twitch a finger, the battle was already over.

  “... What?” the Emir stammered, climbing back onto solid land. “How did you—how was I defeated so soundlessly?”

  Lucius chuckled and summoned a towel, drying the baffled Emir as the young man struggled to understand his failure.

  “Your speed was certainly impressive,” the gentleman said. “But your focus was too narrow. You saw only the part of my body you wished to strike, and in doing so you failed to see my extended leg. All I needed was to do a little sweep, and the rest is history! Awareness is very important, my friend. You must look not at what is solely in front of you.”

  The Emir stared at Lucius for a stunned second, before breaking out into a roaring laugh and collapsing on the temple’s base. “This is humiliating. I wanted to judge your abilities myself, only to make a fool of myself instead.”

  “For one to grow, such moments are necessary. I have experienced much in my life, young al-Balijan, and so will you in the future to come. What matters are the lessons you gain from it.”

  “Indeed, and you have surely dealt me a stern one.”

  The Emir looked up to the sky and beheld those bright, starry lights far above. In this moment, Lucius saw not the countenance of a warrior or even a leader. Al-Balijan had toiled for many years in the pursuit of his nation’s revival. He awed the masses with his power, displayed humility befitting a ruler, yet it was because of such displays that one began to forget that this young man no older than twenty years was still a person, one with doubts, dreams, and experiences still yet to know.

  He carried the future on his back willingly. Sometimes he might falter, or slow, or even fall under the weight of his duty, but regardless of such pains Lucius had no doubt that he would rise back up, for the Emir’s true self was of blinding determination.

  Right now, however, Lucius saw only a boy. He saw a starry-eyed boy with a wide smile and a hope that, one day, this land will usher in a paradise built from the hands of the people.

  His home, his beloved Arabia.

  The Esteemed Gentlepeople of the , to whom I am forever grateful

  [The Distinguishedly Dandy Gentlemen Hall of Fame]