A Discussion Between Friends

A Discussion Between Friends

Zorlac watched the odd, moving light in the sky that had interrupted the beautiful display of of Orlan's mana-geysers for a moment longer, then turned back to his friend.
“I say, Zorlac.” Zanticus remarked, flicking over a page in his book. “Why does every story ever written always have two inseparable, amusing friends?”
“Well I don't know.” Zorlac griped. “I don't write them! Anyhow, it's rude to be reading at the table.” Zanticus glanced up.
“Yes, but at least this way it doesn't look like we're dating.” Zorlac shifted uncomfortably. Sure enough, the 'Geyser View', Orlan's most exclusive restaurant, was crammed with small, two-person tables, almost each one occupied by doting couples. Only most were heterosexual.
“It's... you know... just the Crown Prince and his good friend out for a meal.” Zanticus turned a page. In the window behind him, one of the mana-geysers flared, throwing a plume of white energy towards the night sky.
“Crown Prince no longer, Zorlac, since your sister was crowned.” Whatever good mood Zorlac had evaporated instantly.
“Bopol's greasy left nostril!” Zanticus looked up sharply at the foul if comic curse. “I still can't believe she manipulated my father into leaving her the throne in his will.” Zanticus turned another page.
“There are those,” he said carefully, “who say that he made the decision himself, ever since you got those portraits of the Civitate of Thraxion hung up all over the Akarean Quarter.”
“He wasn't naked! Only mostly. Anyway, he had trouble keeping that belly under wraps as it was.”
“Nonetheless, Jinn wasn't best pleased. Especially after Katrin went out and treated those sick and wounded with her bare hands.”
“It was a bar fight!!!” Zorlac shrieked. The people at the next table looked at him strangely. “And the injured part was her toy-boy. She should have been made pay him for the impropriety!”
“Why, which bit of him did she treat?”
“Don't ask. Anyway, Jinn the bloody Seventh, high and mighty Basilicus of Kamar and MY father too, much as he liked to forget it, always had a soft spot for my little sister. A female monarch! Why, it's never been done.” Zanticus finally closed his book.
“Well, the fact of the matter is, you're not Basilicus, and you're not likely to be. Don't worry, Kamar is practically a democracy by now anyway.”
“Bah. Peasants.” Zorlac sighed, sniffing a scented handkerchief for effect.
“So, Zanticus asked, “what're you going to do with your life?”
“Looks like the Legio Magica is my only real bet. Safe, intellectually taxing, and well-paid. And you'll be with me.”
“But - ”
“Yes you will, Zanticus. Do as I say.”
“But my career!” Zanticus wailed.
“You don't have a career, and I don't have a bodyservant. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” Zorlac asked.
“But - ”
“Good boy, I knew you'd agree. Now, I know the Legio Magica is a military organisation,” Zorlac continued, effortlessly dominating the stuttering Zanticus, “but Kamar has had no major wars in three centuries. So: a nice, safe job for me. And you.”
“What about this war with the Akareans? I heard they're sending the Legio Magica down there. You've never faced a real opponent in your life!”
“Now, I know you're scared,” Zorlac replied, blithely ignoring Zanticus' insinuation, “but never fear. I am an accomplished swordsman, the greatest magician alive, a genius of the highest order, and Crown Prince of Kamar – don't say anything, Zanticus!! And the Akareans are merely barbarians. They will fall to their knees in awe at my majesty.” Zorlac sat back smugly.
“Or,” Zanticus noted. “you could show them one of those portraits of the Civitate of Thraxion naked. That'd bring them to their knees – heaven knows, it worked well enough on their brethren in the Akarean Quarter.”
“I could do that.” Zorlac mused.
“Yes.”
The conversation paused.
“So,” Zanticus said, at last, “I, the scion of one of Kamar's greatest and oldest noble houses, am going to spend my life as your bodyservent.”
“Yes.” Zorlac answered, with no hint of remorse.
“And I was doing so well at the start of this conversation. Why do I let you dominate me so easily?” Zanticus moped.
“It must just be that I am a superior intellect.” Zorlac boasted nonchalantly. “Ah, waiter. What took you so long? I could have written a short story in the time it took you to get here.”
“I don't doubt it, sir.” the waiter replied unctuously, penguin-like in his silly suit and sillier moustaches. “What will sirs be having?”
“Grilled crocodile. Yes, I'm serious.”
“Ostmargue lobster.”
“Excellent.” The waiter scribbled in his notebook and then examined them both carefully over the top of his ridiculously clichéd pince-nez. “And... would sirs like to hire one of our guest-rooms for the night?”
Zorlac threw a glass at him.
“Do I look like a puff to you?”
“I will take that as a no, good sirs. Kindly wait awhile.” The waiter glided off.
“So, Zorlac... the Legio Magica. Blood, pain, untrammeled reams of power being focused through fragile minds with possibly lethal consequences, and Akarean girls, with their big noses, long limbs, and leathery skin. Life's good, eh?” Zanticus wailed. Zorlac just smiled: the world was getting better.
If only he could stop thinking about that light that had crossed the sky.