Jaira shoved the Carmine squire’s chest. “Shut up, Bran!”
Bran barely swayed from her assault. “You’d know best, Jaira. He’s your brother.”
“Lady Jaira,” she snapped. “And Silvo is better with a sword than you.”
“Aye,” Bran said. “I didn’t say he wasn’t good with a sword. I said he was arrogant.”
Jaira’s sculpted eyebrows sank over her narrow eyes. She turned her scowl to Achan. “Why are you here, anyway? Who let you compete?” She whipped around to face the scrawny boy under the tree, the beads in her braids clacking. “Reggio? Would your father approve?”
Reggio glared at Achan. “Most certainly not.”
Jaira turned her pointed nose to Achan, lips pursed in victory. “Then why don’t you scurry off to the stables or barns or wherever it is you strays live.”
“Leave him be,” the blonde said. “There is nothing wrong with being a stray.”
Achan raised his brows. Nothing wrong with being a stray? He’d never heard anyone say such a thing.
“I beg to differ, Tara.” Jaira wrinkled her nose. “They stink.”
Reggio, the scrawny runt, burst into laughter.
Achan didn’t care. He had just learned the blond girl’s name. Tara. And Tara felt there was nothing wrong with being a stray.
Their mockery entered again into his awareness. Achan raised one eyebrow at Jaira, who was beaming at the attention. “Because we sleep with the animals in the barn, is that right, my lady?”
Jaira’s gaze snapped back to his and she frowned. “Well, don’t you?”
The canvas tents flapped in the wind. Everyone stared. Achan searched his memory for Sir Gavin’s lessons on Jaelport, Jaira’s city. He recalled their almost exaltation of women, which explained Jaira’s countenance. They employed slaves and more eunuchs than the rest of Er’Rets combined. They worshiped Zitheos, god of animals.
Achan smiled wide. “Can you fault me, my lady? You prefer the company of animals yourself, do you not? Tell me, does not your god, Zitheos, have the head of the goat? Having met you and your brother, the rumors are confirmed. Those from Jaelport do take after their god.”
Some of the boys laughed, but Jaira’s chest swelled with a long intake of air. She looked Achan up and down with flashing dark eyes. “How dare you!”
Achan shrugged then bowed his head slightly. “You asked, my lady.”
“Come, let us play.” Tara forced a smile, wide peacemaking eyes darting between Achan and Jaira. She held the blindfold out to Achan. “I tagged you, so it is your turn.”
Achan studied the faces around him. All but Jaira and Reggio looked content. It appeared as though they would let him play. He took the blindfold from Tara, and the touch of her hand sent tingles up his arm. She blushed and looked at the ground. The moment he pulled the blindfold up to his eyes he heard a dreadful nasal voice.
“Stop, Achan, this instant!”
Achan froze. He knew that voice. He took one last beholding gaze at Lady Tara, whose sapphire eyes had doubled in size, then reluctantly turned to his lord and master.
Sir Luas Nathak, Lord of Sitna Manor, strode toward them from the jousting field. His emerald cape billowed in his wake. A black leather mask completely covered the right side of his face. Dark, shriveled skin peeked out from the edges. His beard forked in two, half black, half white. His hair split also — the white half partly covered by the mask, the black half oiled back in a swell over his head. He wore a black leather glove on his right hand to hide the ruined flesh.
Gossip varied regarding Lord Nathak’s condition. Some whispered of a rare skin disease. Other’s claimed a fire had burned him horribly. No one knew for certain.
The squires and maidens shrank back a few steps, leaving Achan to face Lord Nathak alone. Achan squared his shoulders. He knew better than to speak first. He bowed his head and prayed Cetheria would have mercy.
Pressure built at the base of his skull as a great fear washed into his mind. At first he assumed it was from someone in the group, but when he looked up and met Lord Nathak’s eye, the feeling vanished. An icy tremor ran through Achan as if from an invisible breeze. He glanced at the budding branches on a nearby poplar and found them still as a statue. No wind had given him that chill.
How odd.
“Explain your presence here.” Lord Nathak spat out his words like they tasted sour.
“I’m entered in the tournament, my lord…” Achan swallowed… “as a squire.”
“On whose authority?”
Achan glanced up and found Lord Nathak’s one eye horribly intimidating. “Sir Gavin Lukos, my lord.”
Understanding tightened the visible half of Lord Nathak’s face. “You are his new squire?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“I heard he was training someone,” Lord Nathak mumbled and tugged on the chin strap of his mask. “Then you have no time for games, do you? You should find him right away and see he has help dressing for his events. Is that not what squires do? Master Rennan?”
The Carmine squire, Bran, jumped, his sunburned face pinker than ever. “Yes. Yes, it is, my lord.”
“Get to it, then. All of you!” Lord Nathak stormed past, bumping hard against Achan’s shoulder. The other squires scrambled off.
Jaira gripped Tara’s arm. “Come! Let us find seats for the joust. I’ll introduce you to Sir Nongo. He’s desperately handsome.”
“It was nice to meet you, Master Cham.” Tara rested a hand on his shoulder, bobbed up on her toes, and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for catching me.”
Jaira rolled her eyes in a huff and pulled Tara away, but Tara looked back over her shoulder at Achan twice before disappearing around the corner of a blue-and-white-striped tent.
Achan stood staring at the place where he last saw her, the scent of her jasmine hair lingering in his nostrils.
*
Achan left the shady clearing and made his way back to the hand-to-hand pen, where two different squires were fighting. Sir Gavin was nowhere to be found.
Achan watched the match while he waited. One squire wore blue and white. He had a full, black beard, grey skin, and was two heads taller than his scrawny, bleeding opponent. The freckled redhead, who couldn’t be more than thirteen, seem to favor the run-and-cower strategy. His purple, red, and silver striped tunic draped over his small frame like a shroud. Neither wore armor.
The big squire punched with such force that the boy made a dent in the dirt. Achan winced and ran his tongue over his teeth. For some fool reason, the boy scrambled to his feet and jogged around the perimeter of the pen. Begging for more pain, Achan guessed. Soon enough, the boy’s wish was granted. The big squire cornered him and rained blows like Poril kneading bread dough. Why didn’t the herald put a stop to this?
Thankfully, the boy finally stayed down. The herald called the match in favor of the squire from Hamonah. Achan couldn’t recall from his lessons with Sir Gavin where that was.
Sir Gavin had still not returned, so Achan approached the herald. “Excuse me, sir. Have you seen Sir Gavin Lukos?”
“Not since this morning.”
Achan surveyed the crowd one last time, searching every bit of red, hoping to spot the Old Kingsguard cape. He turned back to the herald. “Sir Gavin wanted me to compete here. Must I wait for him to enter?”
“What’s your name?”
Achan took a deep breath. “Achan Cham.”
The herald looked Achan over, clearly confused about Achan’s rank. “Lord Nathak says you’re to report to the kitchens…sir.”
Achan nodded. He stepped back from the pen, then spun around and stormed toward the manor, loosening his jerkin as he went. The kitchens? By Lord Nathak’s direct order? Why couldn’t he allow him to serve Sir Gavin at least for one day? Lord Nathak had plenty of servants. Poril had plenty of help.
Achan stalked to the keep and up to Sir Gavin’s bedchamber. The room was empty. Wils was probably off dressing some other poor sap. Achan jer
ked the shield over his head and let it clatter to the floor. He fought with his clothes until he got them all off, pulling out a tuft of hair along with the chain shirt. After folding them as neatly as his temper would allow, he left them, the shield, and Eagan’s Elk lying atop Sir Gavin’s bed.
He stared at the beautiful sword and scabbard. For a morning he’d been a real squire. He sighed. No reason to keep the blade now, though. It looked like Lord Nathak was denying him his knightly apprenticeship. Besides, the sword was much too good for cutting vegetables.
He washed his wounds and dug around until he found some strips of cloth to bind them. At least he would not die from infection. He fought two matches today, met a group of nobles who could have had him arrested, and came face to face with Lord Nathak. He should be thankful to be alive.
Achan spent the rest of the day in the kitchens running errands for frantic Poril. As if the gods didn’t feel this day was humiliating enough, Poril told Achan he was to serve at the feast. Poril made Achan wear a fancy green servant’s uniform. It made him look like a jester.
Any other day Achan would have been thrilled for such an opportunity. But he’d been an equal with squires today, even insulted a noblewoman. To serve them now…well…he’d rather not.
Poril gave him instructions in the kitchen. “Yer not teh speak unless yer spoken to. Pages and squires will serve food to their lords, so yeh’ll not be causing any trouble there. Once the squires sit, yeh’ll serve them.”
Fabulous! Perhaps Achan could offer up some ale or choice wine to Reggio or Bran or Shung or Silvo. He scowled at the floor.
Achan took his place in the serving room off the entrance to the great hall. Dozens of identically dressed servants crowded the tables and filled platters with food. No one had recognized Achan yet. He did see Reggio arguing with Poril about the best cut of lamb for Sir Jabari. Thankfully Poril dealt with the pompous runt himself. Maybe all would be well. Maybe no one would recognize him at all.
He waited for his turn to serve by peering through the doorway into the great hall. He had never seen the room during mealtime, and nothing could prepare him for the clamor of two hundred voices, ripping meat, chewing, and slurping. Brightly-colored gowns and embroidered doublets complemented the polished poplar beams holding up the high ceiling.
As if circumstances didn’t cause him enough sweat, the dozens of torches on the walls and so many bodies crowded together raised the temperature to such a degree, Achan was tempted to go dive into the moat.
A table draped in white linen stretched along a platform at the end of the hall. Prince Gidon Hadar sat in the center on a throne-like chair with a high, carved back. He was tall and strong. A jagged crown of gold sat over his oily black hair. A short, black beard shaded his chin. He looked ridiculous in his gold silk doublet with the red, ruffled sleeves of his shirt flouncing down to his bejeweled fingers. Gren had likely spent hours dyeing the fabric to achieve such a rich shade.
Lord Nathak and his wife sat to the prince’s right. Sir Kenton Garesh, Prince Gidon’s personal protector, also called the shield, sat at Gidon’s left. Everything about Sir Kenton was thick but his black hair, which hung like a curtain about his pale face.
Two dozen others sat around them, dining and laughing above those unworthy to sit at the high table. Two more tables extended the length of the great hall, one along each wall, each seating eighty. All seemed to savor Poril’s feast.
When the high table was served, Achan and nine others dressed like him carried tray upon tray of food to the lower tables in the great hall. Achan quickly spotted Lady Tara and her friends on the left wall facing the high table. He made a point of serving the far end of their table, where he would be neither seen nor summoned. When every trencher was full, the servants took their places along the walls. Five on each side stood in a line against the wall three paces back from those seated at the long tables.
Achan stood last in his line, nearest the door, and on the same side as Lady Tara. He watched the back of her head for a while then glanced over the shoulder of a fat man in front of him, who had already emptied his trencher twice. The man looked around greedily. Achan wondered if he might eat the trencher itself. Achan and the servants waited silently against the wall, moving only when summoned.
Someone to Achan’s left snapped his fingers. “Servant. Some wine.”
Achan retrieved a jug from the serving room and filled the man’s goblet. He turned to go back to his place, but a woman dressed in turquoise held up her glass in silent request. Achan barely managed to fill it around her billowing sleeve. More glasses went up. Achan made his way down the table as guest after guest seized the opportunity for a refill. They raised their goblets and continued their conversation, as if the wine magically poured itself.
He spotted Jaira, the catty, braid-wearing, stray-hating noblewoman from Jaelport he had insulted earlier. She was sitting beside Lady Tara. A chill washed over Achan when Jaira lifted her goblet in the air, her olive-skinned fingers clad in copper and silver rings.
The way she held it, high up under his nose while she chattered to Silvo, made it difficult to pour. It would help to get a better angle. The last thing he needed was to spill on this infernal woman. So he plucked the goblet from her hand.
She gasped. “How dare you touch me!”
Conversation around Jaira dwindled and onlookers stared. Achan ignored them, filled Jaira’s goblet, and set it in front of her plate. Out of nowhere a tiny, hairless dog leaped out of Jaira’s lap. It dunked its head inside the goblet and started drinking.
Achan slid back against the wall and bumped into an overweight servant standing there. He flattened himself beside the pot-bellied man. Though he averted his gaze, he felt the burn of many sets of eyes, including Jaira’s. A sinister pressure built in his mind. Trouble.
“Silvo.” Jaira’s chair scraped on the hardwood floor. “Look at this!”
A request for wine at the end of the table sent Achan scurrying in that direction, but someone caught him by the arm and squeezed.
“Pretty strong arm for a servant,” Silvo said.
Achan jerked free and walked toward the passage leading to the kitchens, praying he’d get outside without a scene. A trencher flew over his shoulder. Something whacked the back of his head. He didn’t stop.
“Hey! I’m talking to you, stray!”
Achan paused, breathed deeply, then turned and growled through clenched teeth. “Sir?”
Silvo stood, hands on hips, a single dark eyebrow cocked. His narrow eyes glittered. “Get us some wine down here.”
The entire row of guests seated on the left wall seemed to be staring at Achan. Behind Silvo, he could see the blur that was Lady Tara’s golden head turn his way.
“My jug is empty, sir,” Achan said. “I need to refill it.”
Something cool nudged his shoulder. Another servant traded a full jug of wine for Achan’s empty one. Achan glared at the servant. Perhaps he could meet this boneheaded slave in the hand-to-hand pen immediately following this humiliation. Where was Sir Gavin anyway?
Achan strode back to Silvo, Jaira, and the rat-dog. He filled Silvo’s goblet. Then Jaira’s. The drunken mutt lay curled by his lady’s trencher, sleeping. Silvo had drained his goblet by the time Achan filled Jaira’s, and the impudent squire clunked it repeatedly against Achan’s jug. Achan filled it again, all the while warmly aware that Lady Tara was watching the scene.
“Tell me, stray.” Silvo took another sip. “How does this squire-servant thing work?”
“It doesn’t really,” Achan murmured.
“I would think not.” Silvo snorted, then snarled, “I demand a rematch, stray. You embarrassed me in front of a lot of people today and—”
“You embarrassed yourself, Master Hamartano,” Lady Tara said.
Silvo’s eyes widened. His olive cheeks flushed maroon.
Lady Tara cocked an eyebrow and held up her goblet. “May I have some wine, please?”
“Of course,
my lady.” Achan took his time filling Lady Tara’s goblet, his own cheeks burning from the effect of her stare.
“I think a man of many talents is quite the man indeed,” she said. “Tell me, Master Hamartano, can you serve wine with one arm? Most servants I’ve seen use two to hold the jug. It must be very heavy.” She looked at Achan. “Pass the jug to Master Hamartano, good sir. I fear Sir Nongo is parched at the high table. We cannot have Master Cham serving your knight, can we, Master Hamartano?”
The boiling rage in Silvo’s eyes brought a grin to Achan’s lips. The squire snatched the jug from Achan and glided on agile feet to the high table.
“I see we are even, Master Cham,” Lady Tara said with a coy smile. “Now I have rescued you.”
Achan smiled down on her. “That you have, my lady.”
“Could you not tell me how you went from squire to servant in half a day?” She sipped her wine, her eyes never leaving his.
His stomach danced a jig. As much as he wanted to talk with her, he remembered his place, and bowed. “Is there anything else you need, my lady?”
“Only your company. Could you not pull up a chair?”
“I could not, my lady. Forgive me.” Achan bowed again, feeling the fool, but enjoying himself nonetheless.
Lady Jaira clucked her tongue. “Really, Tara. You degrade yourself. I don’t understand why you must—”
“Achan!”
It was Sir Gavin’s voice. Achan spotted the knight sitting at the end of the high table itself. The knight was waving him over, his eyebrows trying to send a message Achan couldn’t translate.
Could it have something to do with a servant holding conversation with a noblewoman in the great hall? Although he didn’t sense anger from the knight, Achan blew out a deep breath, turned to Lady Tara, and bowed once more. “Excuse me, my lady.”
He turned to walk the long way around the room to Sir Gavin — in order not to have to pass Silvo at the high table — and met Poril at the entrance. A sense of foreboding closed in on his mind, and from the cook’s bloodshot eyes and clenched teeth Achan figured he’d also seen Achan’s exchange with Lady Tara. Well, why not add a beating to this momentous day?
By Darkness Hid bok-1 Page 15