Forge of Stones

The jester played out the last part of the tune, merrily dancing around the main hall, a wide smile was carved on his painted, multicolored face. As he hit the last of the chords, he ended his performance with a wide curved bow towards the man who sat in the center of the audience throne, his sole spectator, and waited there, until he heard a morose voice:

  “I tire of you too easily these days, Perconal. You used to be more, ah.. Fun”, said the voice that belonged to the Castigator of the Outer Territories.

  “I could do the leap-frog again, sire,” the jester countered with a hopeful proposition.

  “That only seemed funny when you leap-frogged onto the Patriarch and the Procrastinator Militant. Never saw a Procrastinator Militant fumble for his sword like that before,” the Castigator responded absent-mindedly, his head resting on his left hand, a goblet of wine on the other.

  “No crowd today, sire. Who could I leap-frog onto then?”, the jester insisted while fumbling with his crown of bells, his smile turning into an ever more persistent grin.

  “No crowd indeed. I believe I tire of crowds as well lately.”

  “Perhaps .. an orgy?”, proffered the jester, shamelessly making a rude pelvic thrust in the air, his hands mockingly grasping an imaginary waist.

  The Castigator seemed to offer a little time to the idea, but a disapproving nod of his head made the jester suddenly wear the face of a crying, hurt man, his shoulders slumped, hands knead together, as if pleading.

  “No, Perconal. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Then games sire! Games are always fun! And a challenge! Or are you perhaps.. Afraid? Surely not!”, the jester said in a booming voice, and then exploded into a series of mock athletic gestures like running, jumping and javelin throwing, flexing pitifully thin muscles, kneeling and offering an invisible crown to the Castigator, looking as solemn and expressionless as a grave.

  “Games, you say?”, the Castigator seemed briefly intrigued, and now rested his head on both hands, his voice slightly muffled.

  While he seemed to ponder the idea, the jester scurried soundlessly near the table where the goblet of wine lay, and with a wide grin forming on his shallow face once again, he mischievously reached for it. The Castigator took notice, but said nothing. Eyes darting to and fro, the jester sipped some wine off the goblet, his painted lips smearing its bronze, delicately decorated surface with white powder, red and violet paint. As the jester closed his eyes and savored the exquisite vintage, he felt steel like ice hard against his throat.

  “Feuillout usually leaves too dry an aftertaste, don’t you think?”, the Castigator said to the jester in all seriousness, the knife in his hand set against the jester’s throat, its edge flashing bright from the sunlight.

  “Sire. I transgressed”, replied the jester with any hint of grin or smile cast out instantly from his fear-stricken face.

  “You did, Perconal. I hate it when you do that. I thought more highly of you. I believed you to be above such things,” said the Castigator in an emphatically disappointed tone of voice.

  “I was tempted sire. I haven’t tasted wine, any wine that is, since.. I really can’t remember. Truth be told sire, I can’t.”

  The jester almost cried out the last few words, his head bowing in submission, his hands fumbling with his chordus, careful not to touch any strings lest he sound a note.

  “Well, no matter. Tomorrow you will be castigated, forty lashes should be enough. People have been hanged for less. Water is so scarce, yet you would risk your life to indulge in wine tasting, no less. I think I’m growing a soft spot for you, Perconal.”

  “Thank you sire, Gods bless you and your divine rule. Can I at least have another sip, sire? It is so sweet,” said the jester with a half-formed smile and the hint of a gesture towards the goblet.

  “Another sip? Ha! There you go Perconal, you actually made me laugh. Ha ha!”, a hearty laugh creased the Castigator’s usually bored, flat face and shook his chest and head, before throwing the goblet on a nearby column, wine spilling all over the shiny, green-veined, black granite floor.

  “There you go! Lap it up, you fool! Leave none for the maidens!” shouted the Castigator, a furious laughter welling up, unable to contain it. And Perconal the Jester helplessly ran about the marble floor, trying to sip as much of the spilled wine as he could, his bells and jingles ringing and echoing in the empty hall.