On the table before him was a huge lump of dough. Dorne was shaping loaves, making shallow slices across the tops, basting them with egg, then sliding them in the huge ovens behind him with a large wooden paddle. His hands never stopped as he gestured for them to take seats on a long bench opposite him.
“Please, be seated,” Dorne said.
The brick ovens behind him radiated heat, and the room smelled of yeast and bread. Along the length of the room, other bakers were working, taking out the finished loaves. Verice settled on the bench, adjusting his scabbards, trying to keep them out from underfoot.
“Please,” Warna said as she settled beside him. She took a deep breath. “It smells wonderful,” she said.
“My thanks,” Dorne said. “But I can scarce take credit for a bit of flour, water, yeast and heat.” He chuckled. “Still, a few warm slices might not go amiss, eh?”
“We already ate,” Warna made a token protest.
“What does that have to do with anything?” Dorne asked.
Verice found himself with a warm, buttered slice in one hand, and kav in the other. Warna had the same, a bemused look on her face.
“Eat first,” Dorne said. “Then tell me how I can be of assistance.”
Warna bit into hers with obvious enjoyment. Verice followed her lead. The bread was good, slightly sweetened with honey. The crust was crisp and chewy but the bread itself seemed to melt in his mouth.
Dorne nodded, seemingly pleased with their enjoyment. He continued his work, preparing the loaves for the oven. “So, you have something you wished to ask me?”
Warna glanced at Verice, drew a breath, and started to explain the situation.
Verice had dreaded this. Dreaded trying to explain to someone how he’d reacted, reliving the pain and grief all over again as they explained the situation. To tell the tale was to relive it, and his stomach had clenched at the thought of talking to anyone about the problem.
But as Warna described the wreckage in the Great Hall, Dorne just kept working, his hands busy constantly as he nodded his understanding. Maybe it was the heat, maybe the warm bread in his belly, maybe the quiet repetition of Dorne’s task, or maybe just Dorne’s quiet acceptance that made it easier to discuss.
“So, we need to find a way to honor the dead, and yet restore the Hall,” Dorne said quietly.
“Yes,” Warna said. “I’m not really sure how to do that, and I was hoping that you might know, or have some ideas.”
Dorne shook his head ruefully, his hands pausing for just a moment. “I have a few ideas,” he said. “Give me a day or two to think on it. I’ll come to the keep so we can discuss it in detail.”
“Thank you,” Warna sighed, giving Verice a questioning smile.
Warmth washed over him that had nothing to do with the heat of the kitchens. She was worried about him, concerned that he’d been upset by the re-telling. “All’s well,” he murmured, if only to reassure her.
But to his surprise, he found he’d finished his bread and kav. He felt lighter somehow, as if he’d taken off plate armor after a long battle. Something in his shoulders eased as he found it easier to breath.
Warna’s relief was clear as her smile widened.
Verice found his voice, “My thanks, Priest Dorne. For the food, and the assistance.”
“You are most welcome, m’lord.” Dorne turned to shove another loaf in the oven.
“We’ve other errands,” Warna said. “But if there’s no hurry,” she touched Verice’s arm. “I’d like to pay my respects in the Sanctuary. It won’t take a moment.”
“Of course,” Verice said and rose with Warna.
Dorne gestured to one of the cooks. “Show Lady Warna to the Sanctuary,” he ordered.
“I’ll meet you at the horses,” Warna whispered, and was gone.
Verice hesitated then settled back down on the bench. He watched Dorne work for a while, and the other man seemed content with the silence.
“You’re different from Dominic,” Verice finally said.
“In that I am not a pompous ass?” Dorne paused in the act of slicing a loaf. His dark eyes pierced Verice. “Or that I am human?”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“Both,” Verice said, meeting Dorne stare for stare. “It seems odd to me that you are appointed to replace Dominic when the hierarchy of your church is well aware of my preferences.”
“No odder than Lady Warna appearing at your side,” Dorne said dryly.
Verice bristled.
“Peace.” Dorne set down the loaf in his hand. “Lord High Baron, I know full well that while you do not follow our faith, you are not ignorant of its tenets.”
“True enough,” Verice said.
“I cannot replace Dominic,” Dorne continued. “I have no skill at healing, first off, and second, Priests of the Lady are wanderers. We do not take administrative posts within the church. As you are well aware.”
“Yet here you are,” Verice growled.
“Yet here I am,” Dorne said calmly. “Taking up the loaf and the knife. Word came of a need, and I am here to serve until such time as a permanent replacement can be found. Someone half-elven, as per your requirements.” He paused, a flash of sorrow in his eyes. “As it is, I have some experience with planning mourning ceremonies.”
“I’d offer thanks again, for your willingness to aid Warna,” Verice said.
“But no apology for your obvious hypocrisy?” Dorne asked.
“Watch your tongue,” Verice rose to his full height, the bench clattering the floor behind him. His hand went to the hilt of his sword.
“Who else will confront you?” Dorne demanded, standing there, covered in flour and not backing down an inch. “Who else will make you look at your own actions?” The smaller man snorted. “Not to mention the fact that seeing you both together, it seems to me that you fear the pain you are already suffering. Can’t you see that—”
“Lord High Baron!” one of his men ran into the kitchen with the cook that had escorted Warna at his side. “M’lord, there’s trouble in the courtyard. Lady Warna—”
Verice took off running.
“You idiots are going to get yourself killed!” Warna called out as she tried to stay calm.
They had waited until she’d emerged from the church and mounted to swarm into the courtyard, trying to separate her from her escort, banging drums and shouting, demanding tribute for the Lady of Laughter. She’d recognized the company of actors from before. Especially their leader, the one with the kitchen pot on his head and some sort of serving dish as a shield.
Verice’s lieutenant had acted quickly. Ustov and his men cut between the mob and her, forcing them back, away from Warna and her horse. The actors re-grouped to the outer gates of the church’s courtyard, blocking the exit.
“Stand and deliver,” Master Zester shouted as the crowd swirled around behind him. “Tribute is owed to the Lady of Laughter!”
More drums, trumpets, and voices sounded. Warna’s horse threw up its head and pranced a bit at the noise, but it seemed more annoyed than frightened. She kept her seat easily enough but one of her guards took the precaution of grabbing the bridle.
“Dismount, Lady,” Ustov urged. “In case—”
“Cease that racket,” Warna called to Zester. “And Ustov, sheath your weapons. There’s no need for bloodshed over something this foolish.”
Ustov had his sword out, his men were lined up with their shields and naked swords. In another moment something incredibly stupid was going to happen to someone…
“What is the meaning of this?”
All movement ceased, all heads turned to the speaker. Verice was standing on the steps to the main church doors, looking every inch the warrior. His blade was out, and Warna knew full well that he’d not sheathe it at her request.
He also looked very, very angry.
“M’lord,” Master Zester, stepped forward, his pot rattling on his head. The noise rose in the air as the drums, rattles and horns w
ere brought into play. Zester raised his voice to be heard. “We hold your lady hostage for—”
Verice started toward him. “You threaten my lady?” his voice cut through the air. The noise and the crowd behind Zester melted away as he advanced.
Zester squeaked, but stood his ground. “M’lord, I can explain—”
Verice ignored him as he moved to Warna’s side. He paused by her knee. “Are you well?” he asked quietly as his warriors moved up beside them.
“I’m fine,” Warna reassured him. “I think they just wanted your attention—”
“They have it,” Verice growled, swiveling to stare at Zester.
“M’lord,” the actor removed his pot and clutched it to his chest as his men clustered around behind him. “We meant no offense,” he said, nervously eyeing Verice’s sword. “We’d only meant to ask permission to perform for the castle at the Festival. A tribute is owed to the Lady of Laughter, after all, and we’ve not been permitted within those walls for almost a year.” Zester straightened. “It was a poor joke on the part of our company, m’lord. I beg the Lady Warna’s forgiveness and your own.”
Verice stared at the man. “Warna?”
“Idiots and fools,” Warna scanned the crowd. “It’s only by Ustov’s good sense that they weren’t cut down or trampled. Still no one is hurt,” she continued. “One can only hope they are better actors then one might think.”
“M’lady,” Zester protested.
Verice sheathed his sword. “Very well,” he said, and gestured for his horse. The warriors all mounted as well, with Ustov giving the actors a very grim look.
“Lord High Baron,” Zester persisted. “About the Festival…”
Verice stiffened in his saddle. Warna glanced over and saw Dorne in the doorway of the church, wiping his hands on his apron. Verice was staring at him, an odd look on his face.
“Very well, Zester,” Verice turned in his saddle. “You may set up your stage for one day and night during the Festival. Contact my seneschal for the details.”
“My thanks, Lord Verice,” Zester said.
“And Master Zester,” Verice paused as Ustov lead the others on. “Present a comedy. We’ve had overmuch tragedy of late.”
Verice forbade Warna to dismount in the markets, and for once his stubborn woman listened.
He knew full well that this was a breach of trade custom. One usually walked through a market, leaving horses on the outskirts. But custom could go hang from the battlements. He wanted her up high, where he and his men could scan any that approached her.
And they all approached her. Word must have spread that she was in charge of planning the festivities at the castle. Every merchant with a slice of cheese, mug of wine, pastry, sausage or fruit wanted her attention. And that was just the food merchants. They’d the entire length of the market to go yet. Verice had the men surround Warna, but not close enough to hinder the merchants from drawing near.
Close enough to keep a watchful eye on them, though.
He’d have brushed them aside, or referred them to Ersal, but Warna...she seemed in her element, talking, laughing, eyeing the items and asking prices. No tasting - he’d put stop to that fast enough. Still. She was enjoying herself.
Verice huffed out a breath. It was a pleasure to see, but it was going to take forever.
“M’lord,” Ustov moved to his side, scanning the crowd as they walked the horses along. “M’lord, I ask forgiveness. That incident, back in the churchyard, it should never have happened. It was under my command, and I take full responsibility for—”
“Rest easy, Ustov,” Verice said. “You did well.”
“My thanks, m’lord.” Ustov frowned. “They moved fast, m’lord, swarming in and trying to cut her out and away from us. Almost as if they were...more than actors. I am not sure I trust those humans.”
And there it was, from the mouth of one of his own men.
“Master Zester has had a troupe here for many years,” Verice said. “I’ve no reason to doubt him. Still, we’ll mention this to Captain Narthing. Forewarned is forearmed.”
Ustov nodded and drifted back toward the rear, leaving Verice to his own, uncomfortable thoughts.
Dorne’s words pricked at his conscence. In the past, he’d striven to be fair to all his people, human, elven, mixed. But now, especially since the attack, he wondered if that was true. How much of his suspicion of the actors was because the majority of the company was human?
He’d been about to deny Zester, until he’d seen Dorne standing there. True, it paid to keep one’s friends close, and one’s enemies closer, but he’d seen no wisdom in inviting a troupe of humans into the walls. But was that more because they were humans than anything else?
He’d tried to ensure equal justice in his courts for all and sundry, but he hadn’t allowed a human within the walls of his castle for many years. Not until he’d carried Warna within the gate in his arms. That was an ugliness within him that he truly did not wish to see, and could not ignore.
They’d passed through the food merchants, and were entering the cloth and leather-workers. People were running into the street with bolts of cloth, and waving lace and ribbons. Warna’s horse shied a bit, but she got her under control. “Here, now,” Warna called out. “Mind yourselves around the horses.”
Verice moved up then, to ride beside her, frowning at the various men and women. They backed off a bit, still trying to get Warna’s attention. One in particular had a bolt of velvet, as blue as the sky itself. “A new dress for the dancing, m’lady! I can have it done in a trice!”
Warna just laughed, and shook her head.
Verice frowned as they moved past the man. “You should have new dresses, for the festivities,” he was thinking out loud. “Not to mention jewelry. I’ve some diamonds that you could wear, but you may wish to buy something—”
“No,” Warna said.
“But,” Verice was startled at the look on her face.
“I’ll take nothing from you but what I need,” Warna said firmly. “And nothing more than what my lidded basket contains when I leave.”
Verice’s heart turned to stone.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Her words and her tone struck like a knife, but he kept his face blank. “I meant no offense,” he said quietly.
“None taken,” Warna had stopped her horse to take up a spool of ribbon, running it through her fingers. She appeared to be inspecting it closely, but Verice saw her glance his way. She smiled at the merchant and handed it back. “Please be sure to approach the seneschal, and tell him that Warna asked to see your wares.”
The faelle’s face lit with delight. “Bless you, m’lady,” she called as she retreated from the crowd.
Warna started her horse forward, giving him another glance. “But when I leave—”
“We can discuss that another time,” Verice said, casting a glance around them before he looked at her again.
Warna nodded her understanding.
“As my betrothed, you represent Tassinic when you sit beside me on the high seat,” Verice continued, keeping his voice low. “It would be a topic of discussion if you were not suitably clothed.”
They continued on in silence, with Warna outwardly admiring the items being shown to her. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she finally admitted.
“There’s jewelry in the vaults,” Verice said. “If it is your wish, it can be returned to the vaults after the festivities.” He rolled his eyes at her. “And a few dresses will not beggar me or the barony, m’lady.”
Warna laughed, then shrugged. “Very well, m’lord.”
Verice raised an eyebrow. “That blue cloth was fetching,” he coaxed. “I could go back—”
“Velvet?” Warna snorted. “At that price? Think again, m’lord.”
“I defer to your wisdom in the matter,” Verice said, pleased when Warna laughed again.
But she also gave him a piercing look.
“I’m still not taking anything wi
th me when I leave, Verice.”
“A topic for another time,” Verice said as pain rose in his chest. This was not a conversation he wished to have in the streets. Seeking to change the subject, he rose in his stirrups, then settled back down in his saddle. “It would appear that the furniture makers’ lane is ahead. Perhaps we could pick up the pace after this corner?” Verice raised an eyebrow at Warna. “Before they start coming out carrying chairs and tables?”
Narthing was pleased to find that the stairs to Warna’s office didn’t wind him. At this rate of healing, he might even be able to dance at the Festival.
Constable Ricard had accompanied him, keeping a weather eye, but even he gave a nod of satisfaction as they approached the door. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Ricard paused outside the door. “I’m off to drill some of the young’uns.”
“You’re just avoiding the desk work,” Narthing said.
“Leaving such things to you and the Lady Warna,” Ricard said innocently. “Fine, capable hands.”
Narthing muttered something rude under his breath as Ricard strode off. Then he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked.
“Enter,” Warna called.
As he’d expected, the room was filled with a chaos of people and paper. The people were pulling chairs close; the papers were spread over every surface of the room, fighting with the vases of flowers for space.
Warna laughed. “Just move these out of the way,” she said, placing a vase on the floor.
Ersal was there, along with two of his assistants. Warna had recruited Farnor, the quartermaster and his clerk. Janella had four people with her, because of the demands on the housekeeping staff. Dominic’s replacement, Priest Dorne was already seated at the side of Warna’s desk. Even Lord Mayor Pernard had come.
Lady Warna took the chair behind her desk, and seemed in complete command. “Narthing,” her face lit up. “We’ve three days left to get this chaos under control.”
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