A Banquet (II)

The banquet was being prepared in a flurry of activity. Many people were hard at work.

Proud chefs, courteous and eager servers, scribes flexing their fingers as they waited to record the proceedings, and painters mixing their pigments.

They were not the stars of the banquet, but they would be proud to become part of its story.

And so, the banquet would be held as planned.

In fact, of course it would be held as planned—on this ship, no one could defy the will of the man known as the Emperor. His words were law, and his will was everyone's will.

Still, sometimes there were exceptions.

"My lord!"

Hearing Constantin Valdor's voice, the giant in a white robe trimmed with gold sighed.

Then he turned and replied gently, "I'm here, Constantin."

"Why—" His marshal stood frozen in disbelief. "—why?"

"Why what?"

"The banquet!"

"Are you asking why I won't let you stand behind me like mute statues, as you usually do?"

"That is our duty!" Constantin Valdor said, his face taut. "How can the Emperor of Mankind attend a banquet without the Adeptus Custodes at his side?!"

"I only want to sit down and share a meal with my sons. I haven't done so since this journey began. Constantin, I'm asking you—"

The giant wearily rubbed his brow, making the laurel wreath on his head wobble. "Every now and then, I need to be someone other than the Emperor."

"Does Malcador approve?"

"It's only a banquet, Constantin. Do I need his permission for that, too?"

The giant shook his head with amusement. He knew what his marshal meant: he merely wanted to seek some support from Malcador—a political maneuver. Constantin knew how to use those, too.

He didn't do so often, but he knew how. He had to. Before he knew it, the giant's thoughts had drifted back to a distant age, when he hadn't been as weary as he was today.

But I don't want to resort to politics now, Constantin.

I only want to sit down in peace and enjoy a banquet. For that, I'll even have to disappoint the scribes and painters who are looking forward to it.

I must.

He gazed silently at his marshal.

"I understand, my lord."

"Thank you, Constantin," the giant said sincerely.

At the sight of this, the emotions in the Custodian marshal's heart vanished in an instant.

--

The banquet officially began the moment the grand, gilded doors closed. To Fulgrim's surprise, there were very few dishes on the table, and every one of them was unfamiliar to him.

Normally, he would have cared a great deal and might even have asked about them. After all, the dishes served at a banquet could reveal something about their father's tastes.

But now, he was silent.

He leaned back in his chair without a word, as silent as Ferrus Manus. The latter sat beside him, asking no questions and making no attempt to catch his eye.

He was simply there—and that was enough.

Ferrus was always patient.

But not everyone was.

"Father?" Lorgar's voice came from the other end of the long table. "Are these new dishes the chefs have developed? They look delicious."

"No," The Emperor said calmly. "They've existed for a long time."

"Does that include this cutlery, Father?" Rogal Dorn asked.

He wore white and blue, his collar buttoned up to the neck. Beneath his short gray hair, his eyes gazed thoughtfully at the table.

He held two long wooden sticks in his hand. They would likely count as weapons to an ordinary mortal, but in the hands of a demigod like him, they could only serve as cutlery.

The Emperor nodded slowly.

"I assume they were just made, Father?" Lorgar asked urgently, as though he couldn't wait for confirmation.

His father nodded again, confirming Lorgar's guess. Lorgar immediately smiled and leaned over to explain in a low voice to Konrad Curze beside him.

"They feel smooth to the touch, but there are no carvings on the surface like there are on knives and forks. Besides, I've never seen them before. So I knew they must have just been made."

Konrad Curze nodded. "They're called chopsticks."

Lorgar froze.

"W-what?" he asked, blinking. "Brother, what did you just say?"

"Chopsticks. That's what they're called," Curze said. "Karyl used them before."

At that, the man of ordinary stature sitting beside him raised his head in quiet resignation. Then every gaze in the room, save the Emperor's, turned toward him.

An ordinary mortal would probably have begun to tremble by now.

But he didn't.

Karyl Lohars nodded slowly. "That's right, esteemed Primarchs. They're called chopsticks."

"No offense, but how would you know?" Lorgar asked with a frown.

As he spoke, his eyes kept darting toward his father. But his father merely tasted some meat he had scooped from the clear broth. He looked calm, as though he had no interest in what was happening here.

"I've used them," Karyl said evenly. "Konrad already told you, didn't he?"

Across the table, Rogal Dorn narrowed his eyes. The familiar way of phrasing things gave him an uncanny sense of déjà vu.

But first, a man like Karyl Lohars, who could teach their brother to be so kind, couldn't possibly be the sort of person Dorn was beginning to suspect he might be.

Second, he couldn't imagine anyone daring to imitate the Emperor in his presence.

"You've used them?" Lorgar straightened in surprise. "But—"

"Enough, Lorgar," The Emperor said, cutting in with authority. "Our guest hasn't eaten a thing, and you've already asked him several questions."

He paused to look at Lorgar, then shook his head.

He said nothing more.

The golden-skinned giant reluctantly nodded, picked up the cutlery known as chopsticks, and began using them as though he had learned by instinct.

The silent meal continued for a while. Karyl used the chopsticks with a calm but unpracticed air, and Lorgar watched him closely as he picked up food.

When Lorgar saw how clumsy his movements were, he couldn't help laughing for a moment. It was brief, but Curze still caught it.

Karyl noticed, too. He had no choice but to nudge Curze's shin with his heavy boot, warning him not to do anything he shouldn't.

But not everyone wanted to remain silent.

After a deep breath, Fulgrim slowly rose to his feet.

"Mr. Karyl Lohars." He lowered his head. His neatly combed silver hair was tied back, and a shadow now dimmed his handsome face.

He spoke in a low voice.

"I owe you an apology."

Lorgar's eyes widened. Ferrus shook his head, just as expected, while Rogal Dorn listened in silence. The Emperor continued tasting his food.

Karyl glanced sideways at the Night Haunter. The latter turned his head away without a word, then set his chopsticks down on the table.

+Mr. Neos.+

+I won't interfere. This is between you.+

Karyl pressed his lips together. He had no choice but to stand—more precisely, to hop down from the chair that had let him reach the table—before replying to Fulgrim.

"What for?" he asked, perfectly calm. His composure inexplicably irritated Lorgar. He hid it well, but Konrad Curze still caught it.

Curze glanced at him again.

"For my arrogance," Fulgrim said with his head bowed. "I hurt your adopted son, my brother."

"He was never my adopted son. We have no such relationship."

"But you raised him."

"We were simply partners doing the same job."

Rogal Dorn glanced at Konrad Curze. To his surprise, Curze was perfectly calm. There wasn't the slightest ripple in his eyes; Karyl's words didn't seem to affect him at all.

Dorn frowned.

"I'd like to interrupt, if you don't mind."

He stood as well and asked gravely, "Fulgrim, what's going on? Father is holding this banquet to welcome our brother home, yet you're apologizing here to his adoptive father?"

"His partner."

"A title is just a title. What matters is the nature of the relationship," Dorn said. "You should understand that, Mr. Karyl."

Karyl slowly raised an eyebrow. That was more than he'd expected.

He knew these Primarchs only by name, and had learned those just shortly before the banquet began. A server had told him, standing on tiptoe on the steps, full of pride and arrogance. He'd never expected one of these demigods to be so...

Direct.

He smiled faintly.

"Because I hurt our brother's feelings, Rogal."

Pain flickered in Fulgrim's violet eyes. The giant beside him, who had a pair of silver arms, let out a nearly imperceptible sigh. He didn't look at Fulgrim, yet seemed to understand everything.

"As you said, Rogal, when you do something wrong, you should apologize, shouldn't you? That's what I'm doing now. I can't think of a more solemn occasion than a banquet. I had to make use of it to express my regret."

Fulgrim raised his head stubbornly. "I must, Rogal. I must."

+You really aren't going to—+

+No. At a time like this, I shouldn't speak up to stop or mediate. I should be an impartial observer.+

Karyl sighed.

"So this was probably a misunderstanding," he said without giving anything away.

His High Gothic no longer carried the slightest trace of an accent. Combined with his bearing, he looked every inch a noble or governor. "And misunderstandings are easy enough to clear up, aren't they, Konrad?"

"..."

Under his gaze, Konrad Curze—or the Night Haunter—finally stood up, though with obvious reluctance.

Lorgar Aurelian stared at the whole scene, dumbfounded.

A quick note about the release schedule: the book goes up on July 1, and I'll be releasing thirty chapters that day.