A King With No Crown

 The air was crisp, and cold, and reeked of fish, and piss. The people danced and flitted around him, pushing past rudely, without even a care in the world for who they bumped into along the way. Lord Pendragon had enough when the forth person in the last minute shoved past so that their shoulders collided. “Excuse me, but do you mind not being so horribly rude?” he demanded while brushing off his fine black coat, as though she had gotten it dirty

The girl only gave him a confused and almost disgusted expression in turn. As if she had the right to give him such a cold look. The nerve! Then she walked on, not even bothering to pay him an apology.

“You cannot stand in the middle of the way and not get bumped into,” said a large man behind one of the fish stands. He had a very thick accent, from somewhere far to the east. “Come over here, out of the middle of the street,” he demanded, gesturing the lord over.

Never before had anyone ordered him to do something. Lord Pendragon was so appalled that he was shocked. And then, he was too shocked to do anything more than walk over to the stand. The flush of rage that shot through him was visible in the burning of his pale cheeks.

The large man leaned over the counter to stare down at him. “You stick out like sore finger.”

“I believe the phrase is 'sore thumb,' sir. Now if you could just help me out by explaining to these people-”

“Help you? I need help too, you know. We all do.” He gestured to the street of hurrying peasants. “And you being in the middle of the street?” He clicked his tongue and shook his head in vague disappointment. “That's an easy problem to fix.”

“Is it, now?” Lord Pendragon inquired.

“It is already fixed!” the man pointed out with a hearty laugh. “And to think, all it took was two steps! You are not in your manor, surrounded by your people. You are in the middle of the street, in a market, surrounded by the Queen's people. And the Queen's people see a man in a jacket that costs enough money to feed this town for two winters. Well, of course you will be picked on!” He gave a good natured laugh that mostly came from his nose.

The flush in Lord Pendragon's face only grew darker, and his gaze only narrowed into a more defined glare. “Sir, do you know who I am?” he demanded with all the authority of his class.

“No,” the man said rather bluntly, starting to go back to his work as they spoke. He was polishing his scaling knife with the utmost and attention to detail. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Know who you are.”

He blinked in amazement and frustration. “Are you daft? Of course I do! I am Lord Miles Pendragon of the Pendragon estate, lord over the hill.”

But the man was shaking his head like a disappointed father. When he saw the lord flush yet again, he went on to explain without any farther prompt. “That is your name, and your title. But you are you?”

The lord blinked several times with blank confusion plastered on his deadpanned face. “I beg your pardon?”

“I shall give an example: My name is Victor Ivanov. But that tells you nothing about me. Who I am is not my name, it is just what I am called. I am a fish cutter in a market. I work hard, and in exchange, want for little. And I'm Russian. So I am strong and work hard, as all of us do. I make a living with this hand, and if they fail me, then I will die.” He gestured to the finely dressed lord before him. “Who are you?” he asked once more.

“And why should I share myself with you so freely?” A random fisher in a market, barking orders at me like a dog-”

But the lord was cut off by the man throwing his head back and laughing, as though someone had told him the best joke in all the lands. “Ah, so that is who you are!” he roared between bouts of amusement. “Royalty with no crown!”

There was no flush this time. Just stun. Like Victor had just hit him in the face with one of the trout on the stand..

Victor's laugh became softer, and he pointed to the lord with a wise nod. “Yes, I know your type. You don't care who works, so long as it is not you. You run your manor, entertain your important guests, host the parties and meetings and balls. And you cannot even tell me the name of your cook.”

Gears were almost visibly turning in the lord's head, as though he were desperately trying to call the name. But he remained silent. If he admitted he didn't know it, his pride would take the damage. But he had lingered too long, and any lie to save him would be too obvious, now. And so, he elected to say nothing at all.

“I know because I was once the cook for a mighty lord like you. He never knew my name. Did not even know I was Russian.” He spat on the ground. “And now, my son is a chef for another man, who probably does not know his name. But you know the sad thing?” He gestured for the nobleman to lean forward so he could act as though it were a secret. Lord Pendragon did not budge. “You will never learn who they are.” He hummed as though proud of himself, and tapped the temple of his bald head, then turned to the stack of fish that needed cleaning for the sale. “I bet some are more interesting than you. But you will never know.” He shrugged.

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of rolling wheels and tapping hooves. Lord Pendragon looked over to see that his carriage was the one coming down the dirt road.

“Your palace awaits, my king,” the man laughed heartily one more time, and this time, bumps rose on Lord Pendragon's arms.

When the carriage came to be level with him, the driver jumped down at once to hold the door open for his master. People in the street glared with some form of malice and contempt that he had never noticed before. At least, not like this.

He turned back to Victor, but found that no words would leave his mouth. He wasn't even sure how he felt about this anymore. He wanted to be angry, but that would prove the strange man right, as would trying to assert any kind of dominance. But he wanted to regain his pride somehow.

Victor seemed keen on robbing him of even that luxury. “I am not worth your breath,” he said with another wise and knowing nod. Lord Pendragon awkwardly turned away from the strange fisherman, and wordlessly stepped up into the carriage, sitting himself down inside. When the door clicked closed, he removed his hat and leaned his head back against the seat. The carriage started to roll its way home.

He spent the ride with his eyes closed and his mind racing, trying to understand the strange interaction. He thought it had been no time at all, but when the horses came to a stop, he was shocked to see the door open up to the view of his manor. The only place Pendragons had ever called home.

He climbed out and paused a moment, looking to the driver. “What is our chef's name?”

The driver stared at his lord a moment, as if deciding whether or not he had heard correctly. “Anthony Ivonov, my lord,” he finally said.

Miles Pendragon snapped his head around to look the driver in the face. But there was no lie, and no joke. Then he let out a single harsh, loud bark of laughter. “Next time you see him, tell him he makes great fish.”