337 Classic Orange
"I doubt he'd try and flaunt status with his friend's son, but I would still maintain a degree of reverence when introducing yourself." Brahn had made himself comfortable next to the guard, leaving Len alone on the other bench. The gesture was appreciated in light of the pasted pastries, which had been carefully unwrapped and allowed to sit in a pile next to him. His picking through the carcasses of his complimentary treats likely had a hand in prompting this warning.
". . . sorry." Len thought it would have been a waste to simply throw them away given the smushing hadn't altered the taste, but this behavior wasn't fitting of a nobleman. Even culinary delicacies offered as gifts were disposable to the upper class, the mere acceptance of the gift was what mattered. The vast majority of nobles had chefs who could make them such dishes on a whim, those who didn't either too poor to be considered upper class or not one who enjoyed them to begin with.
"It's not something to apologize about, what you do with your gifts in your own carriage is none of my concern. I simply wished to remind you such behavior would be less than welcome elsewhere."
The guard remained silent, sitting upright with his eyes closed. Len didn't know if this was yet more carriage etiquette or simply his attempt at disguising a hangover, but Len wasn't about to rat him out.
"Speaking of, where are we going?"
"A restaurant."
". . . and?"
"I believe it's a property belonging to your mother's family, but I've never been myself." Len began to lurch forward slightly, indicating the carriage was coming to a stop. "'Classic Orange', an establishment that prides itself on maintaining the privacy of its clientele."
- - - - -
True to the name, the building was orange. Disgustingly orange.
To some extent a gaudy or exuberant exterior was to be expected of a facility catering to the nobility, such strange and exotic aesthetics drawing intrigue. In the most blunt manner of speaking, it was 'bait', something to make those with the wealth of vast territories at their disposal wonder what the deal is and step in the door. Of course this wasn't as guaranteed a success as it had been described to Len given the limited number of nobles on a single planet. However in a place like the capital, where the wealth of an empire was concentrated, such a strategy was worth investing in.
Len did not get the feeling this was a gimmick to draw attention, though, at least not at this stage. The tangerine tower before him might instill some level of revulsion, but he could not say it looked bad on an objective level. All of the balconies and windows were well proportioned, and the different shades of orange were distinct enough that the engravings and patterns did not meld into a single cacophonous smear on the landscape. It wasn't exclusively orange either, though he felt saying that was splitting hairs. Certain conjoining elements and portions of the trim and accenting were some shade of purple or blue, and the few plants chosen to decorate the various outcroppings and conceal a few entrances to higher levels from the ground floor bore the greens typical of leaves and vines. It went without saying their flowers and fruits were orange as well, not that Len was anticipating anything else.
"Good evening, sir." The voice of a man returned Len to reality, his carriage already departing towards the wall beyond which the capitol city lay. "Would you be Mister Len Kerr?"
"Ah, yes. I was told . . ." Len trailed off upon seeing the attendant. There was no question he was a swordsman of some renown given the saber at his side and the way he carried himself, however the orange theme of this establishment clearly extended beyond the architecture. His suit, pants, and dress shoes assumed a more normal color of black, but that was as fortunate as he got. He had an orange tie atop a light orange dress shirt, with an orange handkerchief protruding from his suit pocket. Orange buttons, orange socks, orange shoelaces, orange belt - hell, even his hair had been died the damnable color! Len suspected the silver of his jewelry was only allowed because they had not yet figured out how to make an orange metal look nice, or maybe it was because it reflected the unholy desired by whichever sadist was running this place better than gold or brass. ". . . I was told someone was waiting for me here."
It only took Len a moment to recognize the soulless look in the man's as-yet unmolested eyes of brown as a plea to avoid asking about it, a silent request he was only too happy to oblige.
"Very well, follow me."
- - - - -
Much to Len's expectations, the palette of the exterior was little more than an extension of the interior, the only substantive difference being that the greens, browns and blues of nature, the city, and the sky were now confined to windows. The result was a twisted inversion of the perspective from outside.
Where before the building was a wretched splotch of color against the muted and pleasant tones of a clear sky and cleanly maintained hedges, the view out the window was now a jarringly dark and dreary interruption of the clean, neat, and bright orange interior. Not even five minutes inside and Len felt himself falling to this particularly twisted form psychological manipulation, averting his eyes from the fourth floor window he would have considered to be 'freedom' on the second. The whole environment was so jarring that he only realized he hadn't seen anybody else once he ascended to the fifth floor.
"Here you are, sir. The 'Classic Orange' doors." The doors, massive panels of lacquered wood set inside a was not orange. It was instead brown, jarringly brown in fact, at least when compared to everything else but especially the other observably orange doors he'd seen on the way here.
". . . but it's brown?" He didn't know why he said that. It didn't matter to him if it was orange, brown, or bright blue at this point, but something compelled him to object to the assertion this door was 'Classic Orange'.
"I assure you, sir, the door is orange."
"But it is clearly brown."
"Alright." Len's escort removed the handkerchief from his suit's chest pocket and unfurled it before him. "Would you agree this cloth is orange?"
"Obviously."
"And nothing will change your mind?"
"Yeah."
"And the door is brown, correct?"
"Of course."
"Is it?" He placed his handkerchief against the door, spreading the edge of it taught to provide a clear edge of comparison devoid of interfering shadows. "Same color, right?"
"No, there's clearly a-" Len caught himself in the middle of his prepared response, baffled by the scene before him. The handkerchief, much like the rest of his accessories, was very clearly orange. The door was unmistakably brown as well. These two things Len observed to be true, and yet when placed side by side he could not distinguish a difference in shade. "How are you doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"Making them the same color. Is it sorcery?" Len hadn't seen a wand, stave, or split crystal with which sorcery could be performed, but something on this level might not require one. He didn't know enough about the practice to be certain.
"I can assure you, sir, there is no sorcery at play." He offered Len the handkerchief, which was immediately placed against the door to verify his assumptions. True to the man's word, it was exactly the same color. "The door is simply orange, 'Classic Orange'."
"How?" Len felt like he was a baby confused as to the whereabouts of its parents during a bout of peekaboo. Surely there was a trick here, something simple he didn't quite understand, but he couldn't figure it out.
"It's orange, sir. Now could I please have it back?" The escort wasn't making an attempt to hide his amusement, however he clearly needed to be somewhere else.
"Sorry." Recognizing his reaction to be immature, Len meekly returned the rag to its rightful owner. A few quick motions later and it was neatly folded in his pocket.
"Have a nice dinner, sir, and remember that the door is orange."
"I will." Cringing a little, Len waited until he was out of sight before beginning his preparations, waiting in front of the door for a minute or two before knocking. He took this time to recollect himself and ensure his outfit was tidied up properly. Regardless of his recent acquittal, Len knew he wasn't likely to be looked favorably upon by the higher strata. Friend of his father or not, he needed to present his best self. No, he needed to present himself as better than that.
"Excuse me." The door was surprisingly light for its size, though that was probably more a function of it being incredibly level. Something this size only offering a minute squeak was a feat in and of itself.
"Ah, Len, there you are!"
"M-mother?!" Blindsided by the sight of someone who should be elsewhere, Len nearly fell back out of the room. "Aren't you supposed to be-"
"Attending a party? Those are easy to get out of with a sufficient excuse." She giggled a little, beckoning him to sit next to her. "For example, a dinner with someone important."
"Someone . . ." Len scanned the table as soon as his attention was brought back to the reason for his presence here. His mother was seated next to his father, who was currently hunched over the table, unconscious. The arrangement of bottles both on the table and surrounding his chair suggested he had been drinking heavily - which wasn't a particularly uncommon occurrence - but this behavior was general reserved for his mingling with the soldiery.
The next person to catch his eye was a young lady in a light blue dress who looked to be around his age. She hadn't paid him much mind, offering only a polite wave as he made eye contact with her before returning to her meal. The same strikingly pink hair as his mother suggested they were somehow related, and he felt as though he may have seen her somewhere before, but he couldn't remember. For that matter the monster of a man standing silently a distance behind her also looked familiar.
He doubted either of these people were his father's 'old friend'. The woman because she was a little young for such a relationship, and the man because he was clearly a bodyguard of some variety. That only left the person at the head of the table, or rather the person who should have been seated there. He had taken it upon himself to stand in the doorway to the balcony, leisurely leaning against the frame as he sipped from a glass of wine.
Len froze immediately. Even if he couldn't make out many of the details in the dim light, the silhouette alone was enough for Len to discern his identity. How could he not? Paintings of the man were scattered all throughout the hallways of his father's castle!
"You can set aside the formalities for today, young man." He shunted himself off the carpentry with a grunt, spinning around to face him with as much grace as could be expected from someone under the influence. "As much as I'd like to have met in a more coherent state, that dullard insisted we celebrate as soon as he sat down."
"Y-your majesty."
"Don't." Faster than Len could register the Emperor moved to his side, preventing Len from taking a knee by grabbing his bicep. "I have no desire to accept such a gesture at this time. Not from the son of a friend, and not from someone of a foreign fealty."
"Pardon?" Len chanced a glance up into his eyes, surprised by the agility displayed. Inebriated though the Emperor might have been, there was a certain softness he only ever remembered coming from Arrelois.
"Your brother is a king in his own right, is he not?" The reminder was accompanied by a raised eyebrow and tilt of the head, a subtle notification that he was aware of the truth. "As you hold no titles under my purview and your line is of foreign origin, I cannot consider you my subject."
"But-"
"The truth is irrelevant, young one. What matters is perception." He lifted the boy back into a standing position, righting Len's collar before patting some nonexistent dust off of his shoulder. Satisfied with his work, he downed the last of the wine in his glass before placing it onto the tray of an orange robed individual who somehow managed to avoid Len's notice up to this point. "Anyways, I believe a formal introduction is in order."
"A-ah, yes." Len cleared his throat, still light in the head at the sudden appearance of the most important person in the Bulsarzian Empire. "Len Kerr, adopted son of Grand Marshall Arrelois and brother to the King of the Terrans."
"Havrel Bulsa, Sovereign of the Bulsarzian Empire and a humble father of four. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." The Emperor offered a handshake, which Len mindlessly accepted. Despite knowing this act of parity violated aristocratic manners to an absurd degree, he understood on a fundamental level how difficult it would be to justify rejecting the request of the Emperor. "Now, shall we take a seat?"
Len nodded, quiet because he didn't know how to approach conversation with a man of such status. There was, unfortunately, a bit of a problem facing Len at the moment. The table was a rectangular one, two seats on the long side and one for each short side - the 'heads'. Aristocratic convention surrounding supper seating suggested that the 'heads' of such a table in an amicable setting should be occupied by the owner of the territory and the highest ranking 'guest' respectively while the sides should be taken by the supporters of either party. Ideally there would be a sort of checkerboard pattern to allow members of each delegation to better speak with each other in independent conversation and build rapport while offering an opportunity for someone of lesser rank to make a connection with one of the heads, however the specifics were often left to the host. Len's understanding was that the primary partner of each head would usually sit opposite each other somewhere in the center, while the deputy or second in command of each delegation would sit adjacent to the other's 'head'.
Naturally the Emperor sat at one of the heads, however the opposing head was left vacant. Arrelois was wasted next to the Emperor, to be expected if he wanted to drink with his friend, with Linarin next to him. The other woman sat opposite to Linarin, still silently picking through her meal, leaving Len with a bit of a dilemma. The two spots open to him at the table were the seat next to the Emperor, and the head opposite to him. He felt himself suited for neither.