Chapter Text
Arthur is fairly adept at slipping his guards, and for the most part the guards have accepted this habit. The people of Proclus are on the whole too sensible to try and attack a prince of the realm, and those that might be tempted are unlikely to be interested in the unmarried ninth-born child. Most of the time, Arthur is perfectly safe to be out and about by himself, and too stubborn for the guards to bother trying to dissuade him from his solo ventures. Too stubborn for most of the guards, anyway.
There’s a sigh behind Arthur as he walks swiftly into the marketplace.
“If you aren’t going to let me do my job, then I can’t be held responsible if something happens to you, sir,” Arthur’s guard, Nash, says. Nash is fairly good at his job as a castle guard, but he’s ill-equipped for dealing with a charge who isn’t interested in his protection.
“Nothing will happen to me,” Arthur says dismissively. “It’s one of the perks of being the youngest son. No one’s really interested in me.”
“You’re still a target, sir,” Nash insists, “for thieves and other unsavoury characters.”
“I’ve only brought coin for shopping,” Arthur says. “If I’m robbed it will hardly bring the treasury to it’s knees.”
Nash opens his mouth to protest, but Arthur holds up a hand. “Treat it like an afternoon off. Go see what the world has to offer Proclus. I’m sure you can find a trinket to amuse your husband with, or a pretty bauble to send to your mother.”
“Yes, sir,” Nash says, accepting the dismissal. He obediently wanders off, blending discreetly amongst the crowd.
When Arthur is stressed or worried, he liked to disappear into the world of the marketplace. Being followed around by a tangible reminder of his royal status, a large part of his current problem, would make the entire expedition rather counterproductive. Arthur allows Nash to follow him down a few streets before ducking smoothly into a hard-to-spot alleyway and tipping a table as he cuts across an open air tea shop, leaving behind a small confused and angry crowd blocking the path he just took. From there it is a simple matter of drawing a tailor into a discussion on cravats and keeping an eye out for Nash. Once Arthur confirms he is alone, he thanks the tailor for their input and starts looping back around in the direction he is certain he spotted a Morrowian pastry stall.
The atmosphere of the market settles over Arthur and his mind turns to his problem. Ordinarily, the concerns of castle life seem small and foolish in the light of the marketplace. From the moment Arthur first ventured forth into this world, it felt as though he was stepping into some kind of strange and fantastical dream. All around him were bright colours and strange scents so unlike the staid decor of the castle. Everywhere he looked there had been movement, children playing and small animals darting for safety, and the buildings themselves felt alive, half-constructed from canvas and tents making them look like they were breathing as they shifted and swayed in the breeze. Impossible was not usually an issue in the marketplace.
“Your majesty!” an overly excited vendor calls out. “You must take a scarf! Free of charge, in honour of Robert’s marriage!”
Falling back easily on his lessons, Arthur manages to politely turn down the vendor and repress his scowl. Robert’s wedding isn’t strictly the cause of Arthur’s problem, but it has definitely set things in motion. It’s not something Arthur is going to forget about, but it still irritates him to be reminded of it. He briefly wonders when merchants grew bold enough to address someone of his status with such casualness, unsure if things were actually changing, or if he was only aware of it because it annoyed him so. Fearing this might become a trend, Arthur moves into a busier street and makes a point of avoiding eye contact with the vendors.
Robert is the eighth-born royal child and two weeks ago he entered into a productive marriage with a wealthy and well connected highborn lady. This of course means that Arthur’s parents will soon be arranging his marriage. Arthur may be the ninth child and fifth son, but that does not mean he is not useful to the kingdom. The work he does providing research and reasoned opinions pales in comparison to his worth as a husband. All children must get married, rich or poor, royal or common, that is their duty to themselves, their family and their country, and Arthur knows this, but he can’t help but hate it.
There’s little chance he will be sent away as many of his siblings have been, particularly with Cobol’s staunch refusal to consider the attempts King Marnack has been making to secure their alliance through a royal marriage, but that’s a small comfort. The underlying fact is that Arthur must marry, and marry productively and Arthur has no interest in bedding a wife. If anything he finds the idea quite unpleasant. Arthur has no interest in bedding a husband either, although if he allows himself to think about it, committing his life to another man is the far more palatable option. But it’s useless to consider, even idly: royal marriages are always productive.
It’s not that there is any sense of shame in unproductive marriages, nor is it shunned by the wealthy. Robert’s bride has four older sisters who were all married off unproductively, to wives who raised their family’s social connections and benefitted from the family’s enormous wealth. For the highborns, productive and unproductive marriages are simply tools used to solidify and expand their wealth, and their social and political spheres of influence. It’s accepted that some alliances need to be more temporary than others. It is always a risk to form the more permanent connections that span into at least the next generation. They weigh the pros and cons of each and try to make the best decisions for their family.
The royal family simply cannot operate like this. If a family is worthy of marrying into the royal family, it would be deeply insulting to offer them less than the permanent connection that comes from productive marriages. To offer an unproductive marriage would be tantamount to saying the family is only of temporary use to the royal family, and will be unceremoniously discarded with the next generation. Any family deemed acceptable enough to join with the royal one would not be able to accept such treatment.
Somehow, even amongst the otherworldliness of the marketplace, it seems like Arthur’s only option is to accept that he will marry productive, bed a well-connected or wealthy woman of his parents’ choosing, and produce several children.
Disheartened and distracted, Arthur suddenly realises he has taken a wrong turn somewhere and has ended up in the Northern quadrant of the marketplace, amongst the furniture and tapestries. He sighs and takes in his surroundings, trying to work out which paths he can reasonably expect to join up with the Western quadrant, where the food stalls tend, fairly reliably, to be set up, conveniently close to the docks for the freshest fish. Arthur is trying to map out the path he just took in his mind when a voice interrupts him.
“Excuse me sir, I believe you dropped this.” Arthur turns to find a strange man holding out a coin purse. He’s dressed in peculiar, foreign clothes that hang loosely on his well-muscled frame. On his face is a demure expression, that is somewhat belied by the mischief glinting in his grey-green eyes. For a moment, Arthur is too distracted by the small grin that seems to be tugging at the corner of the man’s mouth to realise what has happened.
“You’ve pick-pocketed me!” Arthur exclaims, surprised.
For all that Arthur had been dismissive of Nash’s concerns, he’s well aware that even as the unimportant second youngest child, Arthur is still a prince of the realm and a very wealthy and connected man, or at least he will be upon his marriage and entrance to full adulthood. The thought of being dependent upon a guard is abhorrent to Arthur, not just because he finds the thought of constantly relying upon a guard oppressive, but because he cannot tolerate the idea of being truly helpless. So he had taken it upon himself to learn defensive fighting, and had his clothes all tailored so he could conceal a dagger and be nigh on impossible to steal from. There’s no way he would have simply dropped his coin purse and he ought to be essentially immune to such common thievery. It’s difficult for Arthur to work out if he’s more outraged or impressed at the man’s skill and subsequent audacity in drawing attention to his criminal action.
“I could have your hand for this,” Arthur informs the man coolly, taking back his purse and tucking it away. He can’t remember ever being so intrigued by another person.
“For returning your coin purse?” the man says and his expression would be the perfect portrait of innocent confusion, only he can’t seem to control the brightness in his eyes.
“I suppose you expect a reward, then?” Arthur says, sighing regally. He’s only partly playacting. The con is fairly novel, stealing and then returning valuable items in the hope of a reward, legitimising any earnings and potentially making a connection for future employment, but it’s less interesting now that Arthur has seen though it. At this juncture he can either go along with the con and pay the man, or have him arrested, but either way their interaction will soon be cut short. It’s a pity as the man had briefly offered Arthur a distraction from his circling thoughts.
“You could allow me to keep my hand,” the man suggests, grinning playfully at Arthur and Arthur nearly returns the expression, delighted to find he has been mistaken. The man seems to want to jest with Arthur, of all things, which leaves room for Arthur to try and discover if the man is more attractive still when he laughs. The idea that this man could be more appealing would have seemed absurd before Arthur saw how much he lit up when he smiled. Now Arthur wonders if it’s possible for the man’s eyes to get brighter, or if he scrunches them up when he laughs. He wants to know if they soften into a brighter green or darken into a deeper grey.
“Stealing is a crime of far greater magnitude than the goodness that is returning a man’s lost purse,” Arthur says, feeling strangely proud when the remark makes the man beam with delight.
“You’re quite right,” the man says. “That won’t do at all. We may need to ruminate on this further.”
“If we are to discuss this properly, I feel I need to know your name,” Arthur says.
“Eames, at your service,” the man says, giving a flowery, exaggerated bow. “And you?”
“Arthur,” Arthur replies. He’s not sure if Eames genuinely doesn’t recognise him or not, but he’s more than happy to pretend to just be Arthur for now, not his royal highness Arthur Scott Affan Norman Cobb, fifth born son and ninth born child to their royal majesties King Marnack and Queen Alexandra, rulers of Proclus and defenders of the realm. The bow he gives in return is much more staid, and he holds out his hand, taken aback but pleased by the kiss Eames pressed to the back of it.
“Well, Arthur, how are we going to solve this one?” Eames says. “What’s the appropriate course of action to take with someone you suspect has stolen and then returned your purse?”
“Oddly enough none of my etiquette classes have ever covered this particular topic,” Arthur says. “You present me with a unique problem.”
“They say I’m one of a kind,” Eames says, giving Arthur a wink. “Still, I’m sure we can muddle through. What lies between removing someone’s hand and giving them a big reward?”
“You handed me back a coin purse,” Arthur says. “It was hardly something that deserved receiving a title or promising one of my cousins' hands in marriage.”
“I thought perhaps the good deed was amplified by my dazzling charm and devastating good looks,” Eames says, pouting slightly. The corner of Arthur’s mouth quirks before he cans stop it.
“There you are mistaken, Mr Eames,” Arthur says. “At best I would have given you a few coins to buy yourself a pastry.”
“Stingy bastard,” Eames says, frowning. “I’m beginning to regret returning the purse at all.”
Though Arthur is sure Eames is still playing with him, there’s an edge to his jest that Arthur doesn’t like. He hastens to rectify his coolness. “What would you have me do instead? Perhaps I can find it in myself to accommodate you.”
Eames brightens slightly. “Well for a start, you shouldn’t just send me off on my own. I would expect you would accompany me to eat this pasty, and take the opportunity to thank me profusely for saving you from the horror of losing your fortune. You might even manage to drop in some comments about my virtuous nature, my goodness in going out of the way to help you, and of course my handsomeness.”
“What does that have to do with returning my purse?” Arthur asks, amused despite himself.
“Oh, nothing really,” Eames says. “It just seems to come up a lot in conversation.”
“Undoubtedly,” Arthur says. “Perhaps the solution to our conundrum is simply that I will have to both reward and punish you.”
“Well that certainly sounds promising,” Eames says, smirking. Arthur resists rolling his eyes.
“I will share a pastry with you, as requested, although I make no promises as to the topics of conversation while we dine,” Arthur says. “And as further proof of my gratitude, I won’t have your hand removed until after we have eaten.”
“How magnanimous of you,” Eames says. Arthur inclines his head briefly and accepts Eames’s offered arm, sliding a hand in to hold onto his elbow. It feels daring to walk arm in arm with Eames. The action is fairly common among the highborn, between siblings, spouses, and even friends, but from a young age Arthur has been taught to keep himself apart from others. He does not want to appear to be showing favour to anyone. He cannot risk leading anyone on, or give the impression he is snubbing someone when it would be disadvantageous or inconvenient to accept the gesture from them. As he does not want to spoil the fiction that he is an ordinary market-goer, Arthur cannot refuse the gesture from Eames, and nor does he want to. It’s surprisingly easy to put aside years of lessons to settle in and enjoy Eames’s company.
When the reach the end of a street, Eames’s hand slides down to lace his fingers with Arthur’s and Arthur is startled to suddenly find himself being dragged along behind Eames, as Eames pulls them down the very narrow aisle formed between the backs of some clothing stalls. Eames holds on to Arthur firmly and confidently. Arthur is too shocked by this impropriety to say anything, so he simply allows it and goes along with Eames’s madness, concentrating instead on not tripping over the poles and ropes that secure the canvas roofs and walls of the shops. It’s a tight fit and not a straight passage, forcing them to weave around the more solid frames and occasionally enter the stalls and ignore the shouts of the owners and the shrieks of the customers. Arthur is feeling too giddy to worry about being recognised, and accepts the risk, just tries to keep his face turned away as much as possible. At last they emerge, bursting breathlessly onto one of the more permanent streets and Arthur realises they are just around the corner from where he had hoped to find his favourite bakery. Eames gives Arthur a pleased smirk, and releases his hand.
“What a novel way of getting around,” Arthur says, but it doesn’t come out as dryly as he had intended. It can’t, not when his cheeks are flushed, he is still catching his breath, and the warmth from Eames’s hand still lingers. He glances back down the way they came and tucks the information away, wanting to add it to what he knows of the marketplace and try to work out if he can attempt to repeat the experience, or if it a method only Eames can get away with.
“Yes, I find it does the trick,” Eames says. “Some people find it difficult to get around the marketplace, but I find those people are simply lacking in imagination.”
“Is that would you would call it?” Arthur says. Discovering new secrets of the markets is usually one of Arthur’s favourite things to do, yet he finds he is only distantly interested in the new form of travel. Right now he is faced with the more pressing question of how such an impossible man can exist. And perhaps more importantly, how Arthur can keep Eames in his life.
“Oh yes,” Eames says. “You can’t use logic and reason to try and master the marketplace. She needs to be coaxed and challenged, and whatever you do you mustn’t bore her.”
It’s absurd for Eames to talk about the marketplace as though it is a beast to be tamed, but Arthur has never heard such a perfect description of the place.
“What happens if you bore her?” Arthur asks, letting himself be drawn into Eames’s nonsense, accepting that when it comes to the marketplace, sometimes nonsense is the only possible way to explain anything.
“She’ll sulk and ignore you,” Eames says. “And if enough people bore her too often, she’ll eventually wither and die.”
“It’s like a dream,” Arthur says impulsively. “There are almost no limitations if your mind can cope with the rejection of reality, but if it can’t then there’s nothing left for you to do but wake up.”
“Yes, precisely,” Eames says, sounding thrilled with Arthur and Arthur tries to not feel too pleased by this. “Now come along, darling, we have pastry to eat.”
Arthur follows Eames half a step behind. It had taken him a moment to unfreeze after Eames’s casual use of the affectionate name, his mind whirling around what it could possibly mean. They are so far beyond the normal rules of propriety, Arthur has no idea if it means anything to have Eames talk to him thusly. Nothing so far has suggested that Eames is a creature of rationality, and Arthur thinks it would be foolish to try and understand him in rational terms.
“Good morning,” Eames says, smiling congenially at the woman behind the counter. He glances over the pastries on display and begins ordering. “We’ll have three of the cheese nests, six raisin puffs, two ham rolls, and a chocolate fold. Arthur, anything else?”
“No, thank you,” Arthur says, startled by the quantity of food Eames has ordered. Before he can take out his coin purse, Eames has handed over a rather generous payment for their food.
“And I don’t suppose there’s anywhere for us to sit?” Eames asks, giving the woman a hopeful expression. She nods and finds two crates and a small table for them to sit at. The street is quite narrow, but she tucks them as close to the front of shop as possible, so passersby don’t trip over them. It’s hard for Arthur to decide if it was the excessive amount Eames paid for the pastries that has achieved this, or the way Eames smiled at the woman, eyes crinkling around the corners. Either way, it’s a novel way of dining, Arthur thinks, trying to arrange himself on the impromptu seat.
“How do you manage to make this look like a court dinner?” Eames asks, grinning at Arthur, soft and amused. The crates have apparently proved no hardship for Eames, who slouches comfortably across from Arthur. His clothes are far better suited to outdoor dining, loose layers that are allowed to move with Eames’s body, unlike Arthur’s stiff brocades and closely fitted cottons.
“The first step I find is removing your elbows from the table,” Arthur replies. His eyes catch on the dark ink that peeks out just above Eames’s elbow, where the loose fabric has fallen down. When he tears his eyes away, Eames is smirking insouciantly and Arthur feels the need to scold him, slightly embarrassed to have been caught staring.
“And do sit up straight, Mr Eames, or I will feel inclined to find a book for you to balance on your head.”
Eames beams, which is a wholly unexpected, but not unpleasant result.
“Darling, did you slouch as a child?” Eames asks eagerly. Just as before, the affectionate term rolls easily from Eames’s tongue, as though it were perfectly natural he should address Arthur in this manner. This time, Arthur is not frozen by shock in response to the word, but instead he feels like he is stepping into a whole new world. He’s been enjoying the informal way Eames has been addressing him, but this casual tenderness is shocking and exciting and Arthur still has no idea what it means. It’s not clear how he is meant to respond, if Eames will keep doing it, or how to make sure his heart doesn’t skip next time it happens.
“No,” Arthur says, shaking his head and deciding the best course of action is to simply ignore the endearment. He can hardly say he approves of it, and besides which, it feels like drawing attention to it will break the spell. It feels safer to just go along with it, and hope Eames doesn’t stop. “My younger sister, Ariadne, did, but we shared an etiquette tutor.”
Eames nods thoughtfully, as though tucking this little tidbit away. To his horror, Arthur realises he just volunteered personal information about a member of his family, unprompted, to a total stranger. The information is hardly disreputable, and Eames does not seem the sort to rub shoulders with courtiers, but Arthur never lets his guard down like that. Discretion is an essential quality in a member of the royal family, and something Arthur has never found difficult. Until now, apparently.
“I can’t help but notice you paid for lunch, Mr Eames,” Arthur says, desperate to change the subject and not caring if it’s a clumsy transition. “That seems a poor reward for your good deed.”
“Ah, but you also agreed not to remove my hand until I had been rewarded,” Eames says. “Which is a terrible incentive for me to let you pay.”
“Your logic is flawed,” Arthur says, letting his lips curl into a small smile. “I never said anything about paying in our amended agreement. I was simply going to pay out of common courtesy. You’ve swindled yourself out of a free meal, I’m afraid.”
“What a shame,” Eames says, shaking his head and heaving an exaggerated sigh. “You aren’t going to hold me to the single shared pastry, I hope?”
Eames takes the chocolate fold and breaks it in two, handing half to Arthur. There’s a perfectly serviceable plate in front of Arthur that Eames could have put the food onto, and Arthur’s pocket has a handkerchief that he could use to receive it, yet somehow Arthur finds himself in the peculiar position of taking the food directly from Eames’s hand. Their fingers brush as they transfer the pastry, fingers growing sticky from the softened chocolate and the honey glaze. For a moment, Arthur is completely distracted by the fact that he is about to eat something that has come straight from Eames’s hands, not sure why the idea is so appealing to him. Heavens only knows what those thieving fingers have been handling. Arthur should by rights be disgusted by the prospect. Too much time has passed before the meaning of what Eames has said clicks for Arthur, and he takes a small bite of the pastry to cover for his delayed response.
“So this small feast was a ploy, then?” Arthur asks. “A way to get more from me than offered.”
“Can’t blame a man for trying, pet,” Eames says. “I have no idea if you will come back to see me again, so I must try and make the most of it while you’re still here.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and tuts disapprovingly, keeping his utter delight at Eames’s words well hidden. He knows that it’s quite likely Eames knows who he is and is only interested in spending time with Arthur, prince of the realm, not Arthur, marketplace enthusiast and pastry lover, but it’s still nice to know Eames doesn’t want him to go right away. It’s still nice to hear yet another endearment slip fondly from Eames’s lips.
“At least you don’t presume I will come back to collect your hand in person,” Arthur says.
“If you come asking for my hand, I would be rather inclined to give it to you,” Eames says, winking at him.
“I should really take both,” Arthur says, ignoring the comment, “for the good of the people. I can’t let a thief and a vagabond like yourself run around.”
“I’m not a thief,” Eames says indignantly, and Arthur isn’t sure if he is genuinely offended, or simply pretending. “Well, not just a thief,” he amends. Arthur relaxes fractionally, unsure why he cared so deeply if Eames was upset by his comment.
“Oh?” Arthur says, raising an eyebrow. “Pray tell, what is your other occupation? I trust it is equally disreputable.”
Eames laughs. “I’m certainly not doing the fine work of a courtier, but I doubt anyone would object to my profession. I’m a merchant. Although I suppose it would be more accurate to say that my father is a merchant and I’m his unmarried layabout son, living on his coin.”
Arthur nods. Though Eames is clearly quick fingered, Arthur had doubted he was actually a thief. The contents of Arthur’s purse is more than enough to satisfy a street criminal. Enough to be more enticing than any reasonable reward for returning it, and certainly more desirable than the significant risk that Arthur would simply have had Eames arrested. A merchant’s son made more sense. It explains his familiarly with the market, the ease with which he interacts with the vendors, the bizarre mismatched outfit he wears. Arthur considers the merchant’s stalls he was familiar with, and suddenly realises he knows who Eames’s father is.
“If your father shares your name, then you have been too modest,” Arthur says. “Your father is one of the wealthiest merchants in the country.”
Eames shrugs indifferently. “He keeps me in pastries and leaves me free to rescue highborns from crooks and opportunists, which we can all agree is a far more more noble pursuit.”
“The nobility of your rescue is somewhat undermined by the fact that you robbed me in the first place,” Arthur points out.
“Details,” Eames says, waving a hand dismissively. “The salient point is I have now reduced a handsome lord and should be riding off into the sunset soon.”
It’s impossible to know what Eames might mean by the handsome comment when it comes in the middle of a nonsensical statement, so Arthur ignores it. “Mr Eames, I am impressed,” Arthur says. “You had me truly convinced me you weren’t mad.”
“Oh, I’m quite sane, darling,” Eames assures him. “It’s a story they tell children in Cobol. I’m fairly certain it’s usually ladies and princesses who are rescued, but the sentiment applies I feel.”
“You are not improving my opinion of Cobol,” Arthur says. “Why would anyone want to go riding at twilight, much less someone who has just been accosted?”
“It’s symbolic,” Eames says. “They’re riding off into a better tomorrow.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, but refrains from commenting on the sentimentalities of their stranger neighbour. They drift into more idle chatter, Eames telling Arthur of some of the more peculiar things he has seen and heard in his travels with his father, Arthur trying to find interesting things to talk about from his own experiences visiting neighbouring countries for his siblings’ weddings. At last all of the food is eaten and there is no reason for them to loiter any longer.
“Mr Eames it has been a strange pleasure,” Arthur says.
“Until next time then, darling,” Eames says, grasping Arthur’s hand and kissing it, a much fonder press of lips than Arthur is used to. “Unless next time you intend to remove appendages, of course.”
Eames gives Arthur a wink and wanders off, disappearing into a side alley Arthur’s not sure really exists. The whole afternoon has felt surreal enough that Arthur could almost believe that Eames was simply a figment the marketplace conjured to amuse him. Shaking his head to clear these fanciful thoughts, Arthur sighs and tries to work out where Nash might have ended up.
“How much longer do you think we’ll be eating chicken sausages?” Ariadne says, groaning and flopping down on Dom’s bed.
“Cook’s convinced it is a rare delicacy and not fit for the servants,” Yusuf says, looking up from the shirt he is mending to give Ariadne a teasing grin. “She’s quite insistent only the royal family and the most important guests get to eat it. You might be eating it for the rest of your life, Ari.”
“She can’t have made that much,” Ariadne says. “Besides which, the meat will go off at some point, surely.”
“I dunno,” Dom says, winking at Yusuf. “The amount of spices and salt she’s loaded them up with, they might outlast you.”
“Death would feel like the sweeter option at this point,” Ariadne says mournfully.
“Why don’t you bring one of the dogs in with you?” Arthur says, stretching out on Dom’s chaise lounge.
“I tried that,” Ariadne says. “Mother stopped me before I could get it out of the kennels. She said it’s not proper for a lady to take a hunting dog to dinner with her. I don’t understand why father doesn’t just order the whole batch of disastrous things to be thrown out.”
“They’re Robert’s celebratory wedding sausages,” Arthur says. “It would be insulting their union if we don’t keep eating them. Mother will make us swallow every last bite if it kills us.”
“Father loves them,” Dom says. Ariadne sits up and looks at him, screwing her face up.
“Really?” she says.
“Oh yes,” Dom says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he commissions the same butcher to design Arthur’s wedding meats.”
“Kill me now,” Ariadne says. Arthur frowns at the mention of his inevitable marriage. He had come home from the marketplace with no clearer idea what to do about the fact he didn’t want to get married.
“Here you go,” Yusuf says, throwing the shirt at Dom.
“Your stitching is improving,” Dom says. “These are far straighter than last time.”
“Thank you,” Yusuf says.
“Although maybe next time you might want to consider sewing with thread the same colour as the shirt,” Dom says, holding the shirt up for Arthur and Ariadne to look at. There are bright red stitches standing out against the white shirt. Ariadne laughs and Arthur sighs.
“Hey, you want it done better, you do it yourself,” Yusuf says.
“It is your job,” Arthur points out. Yusuf glares at him.
“We all know Dom keeps me around because of my adorable face and my hangover cures,” Yusuf says. “My ability to sew seams has nothing to do with my job security.”
“It’s true,” Dom says. “Every time I think about firing him, he gives me this little smile and reminds me of the days before his miracle cures.”
“Sometimes I threaten to hit him over the head before he goes into meetings, so he can remember what it used to be like sitting in on treaty discussions when he can’t see straight,” Yusuf says.
“Oh yeah, how is the Cobol treaty going?” Ariadne asks.
“Fine,” Dom says. “The signing is all set for tomorrow. They still won’t agree to a marriage secured-alliance, but if the treaty holds, it should serve as well.”
“It’ll hold,” Ariadne says, shrugging. “They never secure treaties with marriage, it doesn’t mean they can’t be trusted.”
“Their views on marriage are pretty strange,” Arthur says. “I haven’t been able to work out specifics, but they don’t seem to marry politically, at least not with other countries.”
“They don’t do arranged marriages,” Ariadne says.
“What do you mean?” Arthur asks, frowning. He sits up and gives Ariadne a studied look. “They definitely have legal marriages, so they must arrange them somehow, even if it isn’t political.”
Ariadne shakes her head. “They marry for love.”
“Well of course they do,” Arthur says. “Everyone knows the emotional bond makes the marriage more secure. The marriage won’t work if you can’t find a way to love your spouse.”
“No, I mean they fall in love first,” Ariadne says. “They court whoever they are interested in and propose marriage after they fall in love.”
“How does that work?” Arthur says, frowning. “That would be a disaster, the whole country would fall apart. And what if falling in love doesn’t work but you’ve already produced children?”
“Sex before marriage is taboo over there, too,” Ariadne says. “But you don’t have to have sex to fall in love.”
The statement stops Arthur completely. He can’t remember what he was going to say, he can barely remember what they are talking about. He has no idea where Ariadne has gotten this idea from, it’s utterly foreign to everything they have been raised with. Everyone knows sex is a cornerstone in all marriages because it is creates the strong bond between spouses, allowing them to find love and contentment in their lives together. Ever since Arthur came to terms with the fact that he does not want to have sex, he has accepted that he must also therefore not want love, not the deep love of a strong and happy marriage. What Ariadne is suggesting is ridiculous, and clearly wrong, and an absolutely bewitching idea. Arthur shakes his head sharply. He cannot afford to let himself believe in such absurd notions, it will only lead to heartache.
“Arthur?” Ariadne asks softly. She’s looking at him in concern, they all are.
“Sorry,” Arthur says. “I was just thinking about how bizarre the Cobols are. Just today someone told me some of the strange things they tell their children, some nonsense about symbolically riding at sunset after being attacked.”
“They’re different,” Ariadne says. “But I don’t know if they are totally wrong.”
“Who have you been talking to, anyway?” Arthur asks. “I’ve been trying to research them for months and it’s impossible to find any information on them. They keep all of their written records carefully locked away and we’ve yet to get permission to read any of their scholarship.”
“Just traders,” Ariadne says. “People who have been there, some Cobols who moved here. They don’t allow unproductive marriages over there, so they move to places where it’s legal.”
“I think the blacksmiths who shoe our horses might be from Cobol,” Dom says. “They don’t advertise it, but I heard them whispering in the language a few weeks ago.”
“I’ll have to talk to them,” Arthur says absently. “I wonder where people go if they don’t want to marry at all.”
“What do you mean?” Dom asks, bemused.
“I’m not married,” Yusuf points out. Arthur knows this, of course, but he’s never really thought about it. Yusuf’s marital status is just yet another of his odd quirks. Looking at him now, though, Arthur wonders if perhaps Yusuf is similarly afflicted with a disinterest in the marriage bed. If that’s the case, he’s in an ideal position: orphaned and with no siblings needing him, steady employment but no property or assets to worry about inheritances for. Nothing, in short, to propel him towards marriage, beyond the usual social pressures he can happily ignore, and the fact that as the personal valet to the crown prince he is a very eligible bachelor and must surely receive offers from hopeful suitors.
“No, but you are an odd duck,” Ariadne says fondly. “Always have been.”
“That’s true,” Yusuf says. “My mother always used to get cagey when people would ask if I was ever dropped as a child, maybe there’s something wrong with me.”
“Must be something wrong with you if you don’t want to get married,” Arthur says ruefully.
“Arthur, are you getting cold feet about your own upcoming nuptials?” Dom asks, smirking at him. “Don’t worry, I’m certain Mother will manage find someone to meet whatever exacting standards you might have. She’s had a good track record so far, and with Cobol out there’s no more countries to send you off to.”
“Maybe she’ll find you a courtier and you can just stay here,” Yusuf says. “No disruption to your life.”
“Maybe,” Arthur says, summoning what he hopes is a convincing smile. He’s glad when the conversation moves on to Mal’s continued absence from meals, feeling slightly ill at the knowledge that if he doesn’t work something out soon, his parents will find him someone to marry and there will be nothing he can do about it. At this point, Arthur doesn’t even know if there could be a solution to his problem. To arrange for the kind of marriage he wants is like trying to arrange a dream, and right now the world is demanding he wake up.