The Pouring Knights were… overwhelming. All warriors were loud and brash, but these ones were full-fledged brigands, turning a welcome feast into a… a bacchanalia, no less. Maximilian rarely needed to be in such close proximity to them, so he had to make small adjustments to maintain proper decorum. As a scholar, he preferred the peace and quiet of a library over feasts and drinks. The last few years taught him the importance of showing up for such occasions, though.

A splash of beer landed on his shoulder—a knight to his right was waving his cup so ferociously it could be mistaken for his sword.

“Ah! Sorry, Ambassador Maks!”

Exercising his patience, Maximilian assured the knight that it was no bother. He made a note to include an additional passage in his ongoing study on the host’s peculiarities. 

The Pouring Knights initially had a small paragraph: a short recount of their numbers, skills and the hierarchy of their leaders. The more time he spent with them, the more paragraphs were added.

One such passage described the general literacy level. While the Kingless Knights had established Host Elders—older men with a good grasp on written language—the Pouring Knights' leadership was absent from a similar governing body. Majority were illiterate, even Maximilian’s name was too long and foreign for them, so they gave him a shorter local sobriquet. 

The polite “Ambassador” was drilled into them by Warlord Demyan, who had received his proper classical education. At least, Maximilian suspected he did. The Warlord’s handwriting was neat and proper, and each letter flowed with logical structure, decorated in flowery courtesy. Otherwise, Maximilian would not be sitting here. The words tricked him into believing he was approached by a noble lord.

Inadvertently, Maximilian flicked a glance toward the throne. Last time he looked, the High Warlord was conversing with Demyan. Maximilian had been warned the two of them had an estranged relationship, filled with past animosity and grudges. He witnessed it firsthand—the letter Demyan asked him to relay to Chortov was almost burned before it was opened. The High Warlord only graced it with a look out of respect for the status of the person delivering it. 

Thus, no one could blame Maximilian for choking on his own saliva and breaking into a coughing fit.

Wide-eyed and red-faced, he watched the warlords locked in a passionate embrace. There was no mistaking it—they intimately whispered something to each other, with Demyan’s hands clutching the High Warlord so tightly it resembled the possessive hold of a king, drunkenly displaying his concubine. Not a wife. Wives ought to be respected. Such public displays of intimacy were greatly frowned upon.

Obscene! By all norms—local and continental—such display went against decorum. Even brutish soldiers were bound to have some of it, if not Demyan then the High Warlord!

“Aye-aye, Ambassador Maks—” a heavy hand slapped his back a few times, “—was the wine too strong for your liking?”

Sputtering, Maximilian couldn’t reply. The shock was too great. If the two warlords were in such a relationship, all his previous findings had to be scrapped and the political implications revised. The recorded history was littered with examples of failed endeavors born out of a single mistake: the inability to correctly place who warmed whose bed.

Thoughts racing, Maximilian lost all propriety and stared at two men too enamoured with each other to even notice his rudeness.

The knight who tried to help out—Rador, if Maximilian remembered correctly—followed his gaze.

He snorted, as if the indecent image assaulting their eyes was normal.

“Five,” he said.

Clearing his throat, Maximilian asked, “Five?”

“Four.” The knight nudged his head, urging him to keep watching.

Maximilian glanced again at that vulgarity. The High Warlord seemed to be saying something especially untoward; Demyan’s expression was… No, Maximilian would not even describe it in his mind.

“Three.” The knight kept counting.

The warlords did not pay attention to anyone, fully immersed in their shameless spectacle meant for the privacy of locked chambers.

“Two…”

Demyan’s hands relaxed; the creases on the High Warlord’s robes smoothed out.

“One.”

Swiftly, the High Warlord lodged his elbow into Demyan’s side, the force so great Demyan stumbled back and bent in half.

Oh.

A booming laugh from the knight followed.

“Good, Leksa! I taught him that punch!” he yelled, laughing so loud the hearing in Maximilian’s right ear might end up damaged.

Unexpectedly, the knight quieted down and cleared his throat.

“I mean, that wretch!” he cursed instead. “How dare he elbow my Warlord!?” It didn’t have the same sincerity as the initial praise—more like a poor attempt to mask a slip-up.

On the throne pedestal, Demyan, still holding his stomach, started to laugh. His eyes shone bright, and the grin plastered over his face held not an ounce of anger. 

Did Maximilian misread the situation? But how could he? His travels taught him the intricacies of human relationships with lived examples, he had lost his naivete long ago. Theory had been replaced with eyewitness accounts. 

“What, in the name of all knowledge, is happening?” Maximilian whispered to himself, flabbergasted.

“Here, Ambassador Maks, have a drink,” the knight—definitely Rador now that Maximilian remembered him being assigned to welcome the Kingless Knights earlier today—offered as he poured a generous amount into the cup.

Normally modest with his drinking, Maximilian didn’t refuse the wine. Taking a small sip, he composed himself and put his thoughts in order.

“Do tell me—what have I the misfortune to observe?” Maximilian asked. Gathering information was vital for the success of his mission.

Rador gulped down the last of his drink.

“That’s just what they do,” he explained. “Why do you think Leksa hates that scoundrel so much? Whenever they’re in the same room for longer than an hour, this happens.”

Frowning, Maximilian struggled to grasp the notion.

Reading the confusion on his face for what it was, Rador continued:

“Years ago, when they were boys wet behind the ears, they both joined the Kingless Knights. You know about that, right?”

Maximilian nodded.

“I have studied the Wildfields. I know that it’s customary for boys, of common origins or highborn, to join the Kingless Knights once they come of age. A fascinating tradition, may I add. They learn martial skills and gain honors, then either stay, return to their families, or use the experience to join the Crown’s garrisons.”

“Um, yeah,” Rador confirmed, a bit lost after such a detailed recount. Maximilian was a scholar; he could get carried away. “Is that what they teach in the Continental Academy?”

“More or less,” Maximilian admitted sheepishly. “I had a special interest in these lands—that’s why I was chosen as an Ambassador by the Grand Philosopher.” Then, remembering his mission, he asked, “So both warlords were once brothers in arms?”

“More or less,” Rador echoed. “Demyan and Leksa joined the Kingless Knights around the same time. Both brats were highborn. I don’t know if they teach you that too, but highborn ones usually don’t take it seriously.”

That was to be expected. For boys of common birth, the Kingless Knights were a source of income and a chance to establish a military career. The local garrisons under the Crown were usually riddled with second or third sons of nobles; getting in was not easy. Higher up north and protected by Wildfields, those troops were often idling on a good salary, only seldom requested to actually fight in wars.

For nobles, though, joining was usually a way to make some spare money and “become a man”—gain enough respect that good households would consider marrying their daughters to them.

Maximilian glanced toward the throne once again. Neither warlord could be seen there; they had vanished without anyone noticing. 

No matter the vulgar scene, those were warlords, each leading thousands of men.

“It is hard for me to believe these particular highborns joined the Kingless Knights for frivolous reasons,” Maximilian noted.

Rador gave a short nod.

“At first, they were treated like all other pampered nobles—though it is a rule that all are equal once they set foot in Chortov, the reality is different. But these brats had something to prove. They both abhorred being reminded of their noble status.”

While talking, Rador blindly searched with his hand for a wine jar. Another knight shoved it into his hand.

“Ambassador Maks, don’t let Rador bore you too much with his stories. He can’t shut up once he’s drunk.” The knight chuckled, a young one with bright red cheeks and an easy smile.

Well, Maximilian was only too eager to listen to the old warrior’s tales. The elders carried vast knowledge and not enough grateful ears to share it with. 

“No bother, I enjoy a good chat,” Maximilian assured.

While each personal testimony required additional research and shouldn’t be taken as the truth of a matter, it could at the very least point in a direction worth following.

“Ungrateful kids, I am surrounded by ungrateful kids!” Rador lamented, nursing his cup close to his chest.

The knight rolled his eyes and returned to his conversation with the others, leaving the two to their devices. 

No one else seemed to be bothered with what had transpired between the High Warlord and Warlord Demyan; all knights were too engrossed in some drunken scruffle or their own boisterous discussions.

It could be plausible that the indecent act was not meant to be public after all. Per chance, maybe the host leaders had taken advantage of the chaos to let it slip. Which, in turn, would mean that Maximilian accidentally stumbled upon something far more valuable than initially expected. 

“So, Rador,” Maximilian addressed his source with a courteous smile, “you’re telling me both warlords did not enjoy being grouped with other nobility?”