Fool (english)

you, doesn’t he?”
    “Curious, then. Why is that bloody great oaf still drawing breath, knowing what he does about your plans. Fear of ghosts, is it?”
    For the first time Edmund let his pleasant and insincere grin falter. “Well, there is that, but also, I quite enjoy beating him. And when I’m not beating him, having him around makes me feel more clever.”
    “You simple bastard, Drool makes anvils feel more clever. How bloody common of you.”
    That did it. Pretense of pleasantness fell when it came to questions of class, evidently. Edmund’s hand dropped below the table and came up with a long fighting dagger. But alas, I was already in the process of swinging down hard with Jones’s stick end and struck the bastard on his bandaged forearm. The blade went spinning in such a way that I was able to kick the hilt as it hit the floor and flip it up into my own waiting weapon hand. (To be fair, that is right or left, whether it was the juggling or the pickpocket training of Belette, I am agile with either hand.)
    I flipped the blade and held it ready for a throw. “Sit! You’re exactly a half-turn from hell, Edmund. Do twitch. Please do.” He’d seen me perform with my knives at court and knew my skill.
    The bastard sat, cradling his hurt arm as he did so. Blood was seeping through the bandage.
    He spat at me, and missed. “I’ll have you-”
    “Ah, ah, ah,” said I, brandishing the blade. “Pleasant.”

    Edmund growled, but stopped as Kent stormed into the room, knocking the door back on its hinges. His sword was drawn and two young squires were drawing theirs as they followed him. Kent turned and smashed the lead squire in the forehead with the hilt of his own weapon, knocking the boy backward off his feet, quite unconscious. Then Kent spun and swept the feet out from under the other with the flat of his sword and the lad landed on his back with an explosion of breath. The old knight drew back to thrust through the squire’s heart.
    “Hold!” said I. “Don’t kill him!”
    Kent held and looked up, assessing the situation for the first time.
    “I heard a blade clang. I thought the villain was murdering you.”
    “No. He gave me this lovely dragon-hilted dagger as a peace offering.”
    “That is not true,” said the bastard.
    “So,” said Kent, paying particular attention to my readied weapon, “you’re murdering the bastard, then?”
    “Merely testing the weapon’s balance, good knight.”
    “Oh, sorry.”
    “No worries. Thank you. I’ll call you if I need you. Take that unconscious one with you, would you?” I looked at the other, who trembled on the floor. “Edmund, do instruct your knights to be pleasant toward my ruffian. He is a favorite of the king.”
    “Let him alone,” grumbled Edmund.
    Kent and the conscious squire dragged the other one out of the chamber and closed the door.
    “You’re right, this being pleasant is the dog’s bollocks, Edmund.” I flipped the dagger and caught it by the hilt. When Edmund made as if to move, I flipped it again and caught it by the blade. I raised a suspicious eyebrow at him. “So, you were saying about how well my plan had worked.”

    “Edgar is branded a traitor. Even now my father’s knights hunt him. I will be lord of Gloucester.”
    “But, really, Edmund, is that enough?”
    “Exactly,” said the bastard.
    “Uh, exactly what?” Had he already set his sights on Albany’s lands, not even having spoken with Goneril? Now I was doubly unsure of what to do. My own plan to pair the bastard with Goneril and undermine the kingdom was the only thing keeping me from sending the dagger to his throat, and when I thought of the lash marks on poor Drool’s back my hand quivered, wanting to loose the knife to its mark. But what had he set his sights on?
    “The spoils of war can be as great as a kingdom,” said Edmund.
    “War?” How knew he of war? My war.
    “Aye, fool. War.”
    “Fuckstockings,” said I. I let the knife fly and ran out of the room, bells jingling.
    As I approached our tower, I heard what sounded like someone torturing an elk in a tempest. I thought that Edmund might have sent an assassin for Drool after all, so I came through the door low, with one of my daggers at the ready.
    Drool lay on his back on a blanket, a golden-haired woman with a white gown spread around her hips was riding him as if competing in the nitwit steeplechase. I’d seen her before, but never so solid. The two were wailing in