theoldguardkinkmeme

It wasn’t the voice Yusuf recognised first, but the language; Latin. Then the words filtered in.

“Where are they?” said one. “They should be here, my lord.”

“Maybe the Genovan ran away,” said the other. “He’s a meek little mouse; I heard his father had to pack him off to a monastery because he proved so much of a coward on his first campaign.”

Yusuf glanced at Nicolò, whose lip was curled in a sneer, a martial light in his eye. He didn’t look much like a mouse.

“Keane,” he mouthed silently. Yusuf nodded; he had it now.

“Doesn’t that solve the problem, my lord?” asked the other.

“No,” Keane growled. “They both made a mockery of me, that is, of Prince Stephen and I, with this marriage. I want them both dead.”

Yusuf knew this was very serious – they were both in feast clothes, and unarmed except for eating knives, and a guest was planning their assassination – but he couldn’t help rolling his eyes. How, exactly, were Keane and his men planning to escape? Besides which, his parents would mourn suitably, and then cheerfully declare war on Stephen's lands and start preparing Yusuf’s next-youngest sister for the throne. Yusuf did not make the mistake of thinking himself entirely indispensable to his kingdom’s future.

Carefully, carefully, he made his way to the edge. Keane and one of his men were standing facing the sea. He looked over at Nicolò, and held up three fingers. Two. One.

They jumped at the same time, Yusuf aiming for Keane, Nicolò for the other man. Yusuf had meant to snatch Keane’s sword and put him on the ground, but he rolled onto his feet to find that the man’s neck was at a very unnatural angle. His mother was definitely going to kill him now. Maybe just put his eyes out and keep him in a high chamber, as an example. The options were numerous, really.

Nicolò’s man was choking but not down; Yusuf hit him in the head with the hilt of his knife. He would probably die, but that could not be helped.

“No armour,” Nicolò said, short and swift, and scooped up Keane’s longsword. Yusuf followed him in.

In his private chamber, Prince Stephen was standing, looking very put out, with another four men. Not good odds, except that as Nicolò had said, none of them were armoured, having come from the feast. Yusuf ripped his second-favourite saif off the wall – not decorative, not at all – and went to work, with the element of surprise. Nicolò was carving through them like a man possessed. All Yusuf had to do was slice through one man’s elbow, making him drop his shortsword, and bring his blade to Prince Stephen’s neck. He had backed up against the wall, eyes wide with terror.

“Where,” he stuttered – in Latin – “Where is Duke Keane?”

“Dead,” Yusuf said, in Arabic. “Did you think you would do this and escape?”

“You were guests,” said Nicolò, hard and furious. There was blood spattered across his face, other men’s, and it lent him an entirely different air. It was very unfortunate, given the situation, that it mostly made Yusuf want to fuck him even more badly.

“I was having a very good wedding night,” Yusuf said, not lowering his blade.

“We were having a very good wedding night.” Nicolò raised his own stolen weapon.

“Yes, that is right,” Yusuf agreed. "We were, and you decided to interrupt it."

Stephen licked his lips. “I am the ruler of a whole kingdom! I am one of the wealthiest men in Christendom! You cannot – you rejected me, both of us, for this, this…defective monk!”

“I am the heir of a whole kingdom, I do not want anything in Christendom, and he appreciates a good view,” said Yusuf. “As far as I am concerned that makes him worth keeping.”

He flicked his eyes to Nicolò, and nodded to the door; Nicolò strode over and opened it, calling “Guards!”

Stephen was still saying something; Yusuf had stopped listening to him entirely.