Earpiece conversation

The Beaudennes banquet hall was opulent and beautiful, and the food smelled rich and wonderful. Artus enjoyed little of it from behind the slits of the helmet, instead leering at the guests as they streamed in. Only the attendees mattered, but he couldn't avoid the Beaudennes.

Though Artus avoided dealing with as many nobles as he could, he remained familiar with the more prominent Beaudennes members. Marquis Beaudennes strode in first, handsome and dignified, not a hair red or gray out of place. He gave Rita a hug and kiss on the forehead.

"My daughter's first veneration. I'm so proud of you. I've always known my daughter is the most noble, smart, and kind lady, and I've spent all week telling everyone about it. If you need anything else at this feast, let me know. I've spared no expense."

Marquis Beaudennes was a skinflint and ruthless politician, but rumors said he spoiled his daughter. As the marquis gushed over Rita, Artus saw that the rumors were true, and he wished he was seeing it at a much farther distance.

The eldest son, Lord Renaud, was taller and colder than the marquis. Artus had gone hunting with him before as a prince and also as Frederic's aide. Renaud had never made much conversation, and outright ignored Artus once he'd become an aide.

The young lord came up to Rita. "Will you be all right?"

"I'll be fine. Thank you, Renaud!"

It seemed Rita's beaming smile softened even the hardest and smallest of hearts.

After that, everyone arrived in big groups. It was strange and oddly liberating to see these faces he knew but not have to interact with any of them. The hall filled with chatter, and Artus tried not to think about how he couldn't scratch his nose.

Rita whispered to him without turning around. "Are you comfortable?"

"A bit late for that question," he whispered back. "But I'll let you know if I'm about to die."

Everyone settled in, and the marquis started with some introductory words. The feast began like all of them did: gratitude to the saints, then ceremonial partaking of the food. Since he couldn't see Rita that well, he could only assume she was doing it all correctly. He scanned the decor in the meantime—the imagery implied seven saints as expected, but two of them were different from the ones he told Rita to request. Ridiculous, did they want her to fail? Fortunately he was there.

Finally, the honorings began. Servants entered briefly, some snuffing a few lights to dim the room for a more somber atmosphere, others wheeling in a statue of Saint Genevieve holding an oak branch, and yet one more going to Rita. So the Beaudennes did all the venerations of one saint before moving onto the next. Good, maybe he could get this feast under four hours.

"Did the servant bring you an oak branch?" Artus whispered.

"I think so."

"Bring up Countess Dumont. Have her hold the oak branch with you, don't let go of it. Touch her shoulder, bow, end."

Rita repeated the name, and a middle-aged woman approached with purposeful strides, the shifting of her dusty purple dress audible in the room, now silent save for crackling fires.

The harvest on Brigitte Dumont's estate had been poor for the last few years, and she had requested large loans from the neighboring Beaudennes that she had yet to return. Renaud made clear that the debt was too large to be forgiven, but there was no way Dumont was making much money now, anyway. This, then, was the best honoring: a promise of physical and mental support, but without a promise of further gifts.

"Next, Baron Vasseur. Hold the branch to your chest with both hands, close your eyes for ten seconds, nod, end."

Vasseur, on the other hand, had had good fortune this year, and was only invited as a social inferior. Best to acknowledge his achievements and praise his fortitude without implying an increase in social status.

At the end of the ten seconds (Artus counted eight, but good enough), Rita nodded and let the baron return to his seat. Artus then overheard Marquis Beaudennes say to Rita, "Excellent job! You're a natural at this, dear."

The marquis had once called Artus unfit and untalented, and it did give him a measure of satisfaction that the marquis now praised him indirectly.

There were a few more attendees under the saint of resilience, and then it was on to Saint Marcel. Remembering each attendee's honoring and then waiting to see if Rita would execute it was exciting enough that Artus could almost forget about being stuck in a hot suit of armor.

The sixth saint was Saint Jovianne, and it looked like the Beaudennes celebrated the saint of communion by having everyone get up and mingle. Artus experimentally stretched his leg. The armor suit rattled, but it couldn't be heard over the new chatter of the hall. He let out a sigh—the relief was definitely worth the risk.

"Do you need to get out?" Rita asked.

"I'm fine. Stop talking to me. Eyes up, it's Roman Glavier." Now that the attendees could come up as they willed, matters were trickier.

Glavier was a plump and affable-looking man. Like Vasseur, he was mainly here as a social inferior, but he had some business relationship with one of the Beaudennes. Before Artus could think of an appropriately friendly honoring for him, the stout merchant spoke to Rita. "Lady Marguerite, I am humbled by this invitation."

The venerator was on duty until the end of the feast. Whatever Rita did or said, it would be interpreted as that. Rita started to say, "Oh no, the plea—"

Clank!

Glavier stared at the armor. "What was that?"

Rita got up to block the armor from Glavier's view. "Nothing. What do you mean?"

"Repeat after me," Artus hissed. "We welcome you to our hearth."

"We welcome you to our hearts," Rita said dutifully.

Glavier did another doubletake. "Hearts?"

They would soon be family, was what that meant. Artus's brain churned furiously. "The heart remembers what the hand has grasped."

Rita repeated that with the emphases which was unfortunate, but it veered the honoring back to their business accomplishments.

"Now shake out your robes like you're dusting them off, then curtsey."

"Now shake..." Rita began. Both men waited, Artus more painfully. "...hands?" She put out a hand.

Shaking hands under Jovianne meant brotherhood, which made it strange for Rita to do, but since they started at a promised marriage, Artus called this a win.

After a moment, Glavier added, "You're doing a wonderful job of hosting."

Go away, Artus thought irritably. "Rita, just nod and smile. Don't say anything else."

Glavier peered at the suit again, but luckily the hall was dimmed for the honorings. Eventually he left, no doubt wondering if there was perhaps a Beaudennes relative wanting to marry him.

"Remember," said Artus, "everything you do is symbolic. Everyone gets to make small talk except for you."

"Wow, being a host isn't fun at all."

"The venerator isn't supposed to have fun."

"Why do people do this then?"

"Let’s have that conversation when I’m not hiding in a suit of armor."

Some of the attendees approached themselves, but mostly Renaud helped Rita fetch the attendees she requested. Artus distinctly remembered suffering his own minor injury and Renaud not even sparing him a look, but he begrudgingly admitted that Renaud would naturally be more considerate of his own sister. His collar was starting to itch unbearably.

Bells heralded the final saint: Saint Clemente, the saint of hospitality. Servants streamed in with bells, stringed instruments, drums, trumpets, a harp... was that a piano? Music typically accompanied Sainte Clemente, but this was over the top. Artus found it unseemly, but as a man who'd been hiding in a suit of armor hissing answers at the Beaudennes' venerator for over three hours, he wondered if maybe he was the most embarrassing of all.

"Wow," Rita said delightedly, but Artus missed the rest of what she said in the din of the music. Meanwhile the metal suit rattled with the holiday tunes, and Artus was starting to see double.

The endless parade of instruments snaked their way around the hall. When the piano reached Artus, its leg bumped into his armor. The servants muttered to each other in concern—the piano couldn't fit around the suit. To Artus's dismay, servants began to crowd around him.

Rita. Rita! Artus mentally shouted as the servants jostled him, hoping that he might in this very second develop telepathic powers and convey his message to her out of sheer will.

Rita pointed at the giant decorated xylophone, oblivious to Artus's plight.

One of the servants hissed at the other. "Holy cow! Is this suit filled with rocks?"

"Metal is heavy for its size," another servant said.

"You two just don't exercise enough," said a third. "This suit is—oof—nothing!"

"I exercise! You didn't hear me complain about the piano!"

"Friends, we better get this suit out of here or the lord is going to use us for target practice."

"You're right. On three!"

The servants heaved and lifted Artus away, allowing the procession to move forward. Rita! Artus called desperately as he found himself marched towards the rear doors. But because he still didn't have any magical powers, he was helpless to stop the servants from bringing him out of the banquet hall and setting him down to the side.

"I swear they put something else in that suit."

Artus sweated.

"We can open it up later, but first we have to help put the piano in place."

"If it's too much for you, you can leave it to me."

"I said I didn't complain about the piano!"