"Never trust a quest that starts with 'there'll be gold.'" — Fenella Quickwit, allegedly
•
Three days, two borrowed boots, and one suspiciously well-fitted waistcoat later, Bartholomew Blunt stood before the gates of the Royal Palace.
He stared up at its towering golden spires, the elaborate stonework carved with saints, serpents, and a particularly smug-looking pigeon. Sunlight gleamed off the marble steps in such a way that Blunt instinctively squinted and whispered to himself:
"So this is what taxes look like."
He stood awkwardly, in his best approximation of formal attire, and held his chin high, as he'd seen important people do, until his neck cramped.
One of the guards, a thin fellow with a mustache that looked drawn on with charcoal, stepped forward.
"Name?" the guard asked, unimpressed.
"Sir Bartholomew Blunt," he said, placing a hand to his chest. "Possibly expected."
The guard consulted a scroll.
"You're on the list," he said flatly. "Wait here."
Before Blunt could ask whether the punishment for impersonating a noble was still hanging, the doors swung open with theatrical grandeur. Trumpets blared, and an announcer in absurd colored breeches stepped into view.
"Sir Bartholomew Blunt!" the man declared. "Hero of the Realm!"
Blunt flinched.
The guard nudged him forward.
"Go."
He entered.
The Grand Vestibule was a marble ocean of excess. Statues of important-looking men with incredibly bored expressions stood by the sides.
He moved slowly, half-worried that breathing too hard might incur a fine. Then, without warning, a dozen footmen in matching sashes flanked him and began a ceremonial walk toward a grand hall.
"Is.. this the arrest procession?" he asked one.
"No, sir. This is the honor guard," the footman replied, trying not to sigh.
"Oh good," Blunt mumbled. "So I'll be honored before I'm executed."
Finally, they arrived at the Grand Hall.
Blunt had never seen so much gold in one place. Not in a chest, not in a bishop's purse, and certainly not stacked in every corner of a building so large it could house the entire town of Rottelbury-on-Slush… twice.
"Dear God," he muttered under his breath. "It's like walking into a pudding made of diamonds."
He hesitated for a bit, then remembered everyone was staring and took one very awkward, ceremonial step inside.
> Thump.
Clink.
Crash.
He knocked over a decorative spear in the doorway, and it clattered to the floor like thunder.
"It was already leaning," he said quickly.
A sharply dressed attendant appeared beside him.
"Sir Blunt, you are our honored guest. Please, enjoy the feast. Partake in anything you wish."
"Is there a seating chart?" Blunt asked.
"There's a table. If you don't knock it over, you may sit at it."
Blunt wandered in, nervously picking at things.
He squinted at a jelly mold in the shape of a duck, "I've seen war wounds less jiggly."
Moving on, he picked up a spoon, and weighed it, sniffed a napkin, and gently poked a roast pheasant like it might explode. One noblewoman recoiled.
"I believe it's already dead, good sir."
"Yes...yes."
As he hovered over a mountain of jellied eel towers, a man stepped beside him. Late twenties, well dressed, with an effortless grace that suggested sword training, poetry lessons, and a life unburdened by overdue debts.
"You're the man of the hour," the stranger said with a smile. "We were beginning to think you'd gotten lost in the cloakroom."
Blunt turned to him, mouth half full of trifle.
"Charles," the man replied, extending a hand.
Blunt shook it firmly.
"We meet again, Charles. You've got the handshake of a man who owns at least three swords."
"Only two," Charles said with a chuckle. "The third is ceremonial."
"Are you in the service?"
"In a manner of speaking," Charles replied, sipping wine. "I serve under my father—the king."
Blunt choked slightly on his trifle.
"Wait—your father? As in the king of Westmere? As in the reason I'm here right now?"
"The very same. You did save my life, after all."
Before Charles could say further, the music drew to a dramatic halt. All heads turned toward the grand staircase, where the king of Westmere stood with a goblet raised high and cheeks as red as a sunburned beetroot.
"Ladies and gentlemen, lords and ladies!" he boomed. "Today, we honor a man of courage, instinct, and—dare I say it—remarkably creative swords skills. Sir Bartholomew Blunt!"
There was a stunned silence. Then confused applause. Some clapped earnestly. Others glanced at their neighbors as if hoping for context.
Blunt looked around to make sure there wasn't another man named Blunt behind him, then raised his goblet in return and said:
"Thank you… thank you!"
> "Remarkable is putting it mildly," someone whispered.
"You think it's really him?" said a nobleman to his wife.
"Does it matter?" she replied.
The King continued.
"To the brave soul who saved my son from doom, we feast in his honor!"
The music resumed, and the nobles returned to their merriment.
As Blunt tried to discreetly sneak another pastry into his coat pocket, a page in royal blue approached with a deep bow.
"His Majesty requests your presence."
Blunt stared.
"The King?"
"His Majesty. The King."
"Right. I see. And... is this good?"
"I was not told."
"Could you be told?"
"This way, Sir Blunt."
Blunt followed, weaving through the crowd like a man approaching a firing squad. Every noble he passed whispered or glanced at him.
> "Is that him?"
> "The one who saved the Prince?"
> "I heard he bit a wolf."
He reached the far side of the hall where the King sat under a canopy of silken banners, flanked by guards and advisors.
Blunt cleared his throat and bowed—awkwardly, nearly headbutting a candelabra.
"Your Majesty," his voice, an octave too high. "Lovely party. Love what you've done with the tapestries."
The King raised one eyebrow and smiled faintly.
> "So you're the man who saved my son?"
Blunt blinked.
> "According to several witnesses, yes."
The King leaned forward curiously.
> "Then let's have a little chat."
....
"I've heard you are the finest warrior in the land."
Blunt puffed out his chest. "Well, I don't like to brag. But yes, that's largely accurate. In the right lighting."
"You are…not what I expected. But perhaps that's what this requires."
"This?"
The King clasped his hands behind his back. "Tell me, Sir Blunt. How much do you charge for your services?"
"Ah, I usually wait to hear the job before I put a price on it. Could be anywhere from a bottle of port to an entire duchy, depending on the level of risk required."
"I see," said the King dryly. "Well, what I ask of you is of great importance. A matter of royal legacy...." He turned to meet Blunt's eyes.
Blunt nodded slowly. "Ah, one of those."
The King finally turned. "I need something retrieved. Something precious to my family, stolen many years ago and lost in a place where few dare go."
"Stolen?" Blunt tilted his head. "From this palace? With all the guards?"
"It vanished decades ago. But only recently did I learn of its whereabouts," the King said, leading him toward a long corridor lit by flame-cradled chandeliers.
"I'm asking you," he stepped forward, "to bring back the Goblet of Veritas."
Blunt frowned, confused. "Is that… a weapon?"
"It is an heirloom. A sacred vessel used in coronations for centuries," the King replied. "One that holds immense value to the monarchy."
"Does it do anything?"
"Only gather dust when unused," he said quickly. "Its value is ceremonial. A symbol of truth, loyalty, and history."
Blunt scratched his chin. "And… where exactly is it now?"
The King hesitated a bit. "In the possession of a dragon."
Silence.
"Pardon?"
"An old dragon. Retired. Hoards in the Whispering Vale. The goblet is in his collection."
Blunt paled. "You want me to rob a dragon."
"'Retrieve' sounds more noble, don't you think?"
Blunt gave a nervous chuckle. "And your knights? Soldiers? Royal bashers?"
"All tried. All failed. A royal banner only paints a bigger target."
He glanced toward the door. "And I suppose running is frowned upon in royal circles?"
"Only if you get caught," the King replied.
—The Vault of Forgotten Things
The doors slowly creaked open, showing a room full of shiny, old things. Like ancient swords, torn flags, broken crowns, and even what looked like a dried-up badger wearing a tutu.
"This," said the King, pointing to an empty pedestal, "is where the Goblet of Veritas once sat."
Blunt leaned closer. "Goblet of… Verrrrr-i-tas." He gave the word an exotic spin.
"Bring it back to me, and you shall be rewarded handsomely. Gold. Lands. A title, if you desire one."
Blunt's eyes gleamed. "Would 'Royal Knight' be too much?"
"We'll work something out."
The king's tone darkened. "However, I must warn you, I cannot offer royal escorts. The last three retrieval parties failed. Horribly."
Blunt raised an eyebrow. "How?"
"Let's just say they encountered… resistance. Too much attention ruins subtle efforts."
Blunt sniffed. "I'm nothing if not subtle. I once snuck out of a duel before it was scheduled."
"Excellent," said the king, ignoring that entirely. "Do you accept?"
Blunt hesitated just a second too long, just enough to suspect there was something the king wasn't saying.
But then he imagined piles of gold. Titles. His own private latrine. "Of course, Your Majesty. You have my sword."
"Good," said the King with a small smile. "Try not to die."
Blunt gave a confident bow that nearly knocked over a vase.
"Death fears me, sire."
"Let's hope the dragon does too."