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“You!”
Considering how few times a cry such as that had been directed at Merlin, it took a few seconds and some pointed looks from other market-goers to realize that he was the “you” in question. He nearly ran into Arthur’s back before that fact fully registered; the king had come to a full stop already, hand on the hilt of his sword as he examined his servant’s accuser.
The man was stout, bearded, and unremarkable. His cloak was dirty, the leather armor underneath looking cobbled together and ill-maintained. He didn’t look in the least bit familiar.
Merlin glanced around once more, just to make sure there was no one behind him the man could be referring to instead. Finding no one, he pointed at himself. “Me?”
The man didn’t address him, though his face did twist up into a caricature of fury and disdain that was honestly quite insulting. Instead, he turned to Arthur, looking him up and down. Arthur wasn’t in his full kingly regalia, not being required in court today for any reason, but between his demeanor and his glittering, golden sword, he was hard to mistake.
“Sire,” the man spat out. “This man is a sorcerer!”
Merlin blinked at him, too taken aback to be afraid. He’d been accused of sorcery a half dozen times in the past, but never before by someone he didn’t even recognize.
All that came out of his mouth was an utterly bewildered, “What?”
“A sorcerer, I say!” the man shouted, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Not two days past, he killed eight of my comrades. One sweep of his hand, I tell you, and they was dead on the ground. I barely escaped with my own life!”
Oh.
Looking closely, Merlin supposed the style of the leather armour was vaguely recognizable from what he remembered of that group of mercenaries he had encountered on the way back from Morgana’s latest attempt to kill him. It was hard to be sure. It had been very dark and Merlin had been more than a little bit preoccupied. He hadn’t stopped to count how many men he’d sent flying that night, but eight seemed a reasonable estimate.
Merlin opened his mouth to deny having done any such thing, but he didn’t have to—Arthur was already throwing his head back on a laugh. He wasn’t the only one, either. A small crowd had gathered to witness the spectacle, and many of them tittered as well, elbowing each other and slapping their knees at the very thought.
The man looked wholly offended. With the murderous intent in his eyes, and the seriousness of the accusation being levied, Merlin felt like he should probably be at least a bit worried, but there was a flush creeping up the man’s neck to turn his face a splotchy red and, honestly, he was having trouble not laughing himself.
“Are you sure?” he found himself asking. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
The crowd laughed some more. Arthur clapped Merlin on the shoulder with one hand and wiped his streaming eyes with the other.
“I assure you,” he said, pausing for a stray chuckle, “that Merlin did no such thing. In fact, I have it on good authority that, two nights past, he was—”
Merlin elbowed Arthur in the ribs before he could announce Merlin’s fictitious girlfriend to the whole town. He’d never hear the end of the gossip if that started making the rounds. He gave Arthur a pointed look, which he responded to with yet more laughter. He was going to pull a muscle if he kept this up.
The only person not amused was the mercenary. He stalked forward with a snarl on his face. He stopped outside of close weapon range, at least, but he got near enough to the king for the nearest guards to rattle their armour a bit.
“I tell you plainly, your majesty,” the man hissed. “I would swear it on my life: he worked magic against us!”
The hilarity of the situation was wearing off.
Merlin released a gusty sigh and said, “If I was a sorcerer capable of the feats you describe, do you really think I’d have spent the last nine years of my life toadying to the likes of him?”
He jerked his thumb at Arthur, who didn’t even have the decency to look put out about it. He just cuffed Merlin on the back of the head in that weirdly affectionate way of his. At Merlin’s dirty look, he raised his eyebrows and spread his arms as if to say, “I’m the king—what are you going to do about it?”
Now, that was familiar.
What Arthur said out loud was, “You’re proud to serve me. You’ve said so before. Apparently, it’s an honor.”
“It’s something, alright,” Merlin grumbled, hoisting his pack, full of Arthur’s…everything, into a less uncomfortable position on his shoulder. “Aren’t you going to be late for the knights’ training?”
Arthur rolled his eyes. “You’re the one getting waylaid in the streets,” he pointed out. “I’d have already been on the field if not for you. If you’re so worried about tardiness, then quit fighting mercenaries with magic all the time.”
The absolute ludicrousness of hearing that sentence pass Arthur’s lips finally wrung a laugh out of Merlin himself. He laughed so hard that he nearly dropped the overfull pack and Arthur had to reach out and steady him with a bemused chuckle of his own. By the time he’d regained control of himself, the angry man had given it up as a lost cause and was stalking away, already halfway toward the city gates.
Finally, Merlin wiped the tears from his eyes, though he couldn’t force the grin off his face, and said, “Can’t make you any promises.”