Orphan: Book One: Chronicles of the Fall

by Lee Ramsay

  Dougan led the procession, his left hand draped over the hilt of his sword. The casual gesture was at odds with the forced blandness of his bearded face. Behind him rode two men on dappled gray and black destriers; the one on Dougan’s right was dressed in a gold and vibrant blue brocaded doublet, while the other man wore gold and cream. Flanking them were two young men in Duke Riand’s livery, riding rouncies and bearing tall standards. Tristan assumed these were the duke’s banners, but the air was too still for the cloth to rise and display the sigil on the golden fabric.

  Behind the lead riders came a large coach, drawn by a team of six silver-caparisoned black mares. The conveyance was crimson save for the black roof. Each door carried House of Riand’s elaborate coat of arms – a quartered shield supported by rampant stallions, a left-facing helm bearing a gold and crimson coronet capped by the head of a screaming eagle. Lowered windows allowed air to stir cloth of gold curtains.

  He lifted his gaze past the carriage and counted no less than twelve other riders. Where in all hells are we supposed to put these people?

  He dismissed the thought as the procession rolled to a stop in a cloud of dust. Dougan continued forward, his boot heels loud against the ground as he stepped to Anthoun’s other side before facing the carriage. Tristan slanted his eyes toward the veteran. The muscles beneath Dougan’s beard jumped from the force of his clenched teeth.

  A young man in elaborate livery descended from the carriage seat and moved to stand an arm’s length from Anthoun. His boot heels snapped together as he came to a stop and inclined his head. His clear voice carried across the commons, leading Tristan to assume the man was a herald. “You are Master Anthoun, Sage of the Realm?”

  “I am he,” Anthoun said, his tone and phrasing formal.

  Two liveried servants opened the carriage door as the herald snapped a short bow. “I present to you His Grace the Duke, Sir Rothan Riand, Heir Presumptive to King Garoos of House Dremmen, and his wife, the Duchess of Riand.

  A foot emerged from the carriage’s depths, clad in a black ankle boot and hose. A beringed hand brushed aside the golden curtain, revealing a leg clad in gold and crimson trunk hose. A crimson sash swept across the chest of a sable and gold brocade doublet. An unsmiling, angular face emerged, framed by graying brown hair bound by an elaborate gold device at the nape. A nose hooked like an eagle’s beak separated two hard and glittering dark brown eyes.

  Every man and woman genuflected in various degrees of grace as Duke Riand’s boot touched the dirt; men fell into bows with right knee bent as women pinched their skirts and dipped into curtsies. Dougan rendered a salute despite no longer being in service to the duke’s house, his right hand knuckling the brim of his cap. Anthoun, too, did not bow; he merely dipped his head, his chin brushing his chest.

  Beaded sweat stung the smooth-scraped skin of Tristan’s upper lip. In all the preparation for the nobleman’s arrival, no one had told him how to behave or address him. He cast his eyes toward the other men and did his best to approximate their bow.

  Carriage springs creaked as the duke handed his wife down. All Tristan saw of her was the gold cloth of her skirts, the velvet embellished with embroidered black vines. He wondered how long he was supposed to hold the awkward bow as his thighs began to burn, and glanced to his sides to see what others were doing. He held the position the toes of the duke’s polished boots moved into his line of sight.

  “Rise.” The duke’s voice was cool with an affectation approaching boredom. At his command, the assembled people of Dorishad straightened from their obeisance. “Master Anthoun.”

  “Your Grace,” Anthoun said, his words clipped and precise. Tristan flicked a glance at his ward father’s face and found it as warm and animated as a rock. He turned and gestured to Dougan. “Might I present to you Dougan Rothmany, son of Albrecht?”

  “Sergeant,” the duke said in the same bored tone, though his eyebrows rose as he took in the uniform and the sash denoting rank. “I see you donned your uniform to give respect to my House.”

  Dougan’s heels snapped together, and his shoulders bent in a respectful bow. “Your Grace.”

  Riand sniffed, his lips turning downward at the corners. “I might have appreciated the effort had you attempted to discover what the current uniform is; that rag you wear is a touch out of fashion. My father might have found your gesture a fine tribute, but I find your inattentiveness to the changes I have instituted insulting. However, as you are a relic of a bygone day, I shall accept it as a quaint gesture.”

  Jaw muscles jumped beneath flushed brown skin as Dougan gave another bow. “Your Grace.”

  The duke turned his attention from the veteran dismissively. Riand’s eyes met Tristan’s, then ran a disdainful gaze over the young man’s clothing. “What is this?”

  “Your Grace, may I present my ward son, Tristan?”

  “If you must.”

  Uncertain how to greet the duke, Tristan followed Dougan’s example and gave a slight bow from the waist. Fresh sweat sprang to his skin as the nobleman frowned. “Your Grace.”

  “Your ward needs a lesson on proper etiquette for his station,” Riand said, his voice losing its bored affectation. “Were this Caer Pender, the boy would be on his way to the dungeons.”

  “Then it is fortunate that we are not at Caer Pender,” Anthoun said, his voice icy. “Until today, Your Grace, he has never seen a nobleman; few come our way. I thought it best to educate him the practical needs of daily life, and have been negligent in the courtlier points.”

  “Then perhaps I should have you flogged on his behalf.” The two men locked gazes for a moment. Something shifted in the depths of sage’s gray eyes, and an odd tension rose from the old man’s slender form. The moment passed as Duke Riand turned his golden-brown eyes back on Tristan, the lines framing his lips a trifle sharper. “First lesson, boy. Ward or not, a pissant nothing such as yourself kneels before his liege lord when addressed and does not rise until permitted to do so. You have my permission to make your obeisance.”

  “You will do no such thing, Tristan,” Anthoun interposed as Tristan began to bend his knee. “Let me remind you, Your Grace – I hold these lands by deed from High King Mathonis, with the stipulation that I may dispense with them as I see fit. It would do you well to remember that, nameless though Tristan may be, he is heir to these lands.”

  Riand turned his gaze on Anthoun and stepped closer until the distance between him and the old man was little more than a handspan. “Dorishad is within my lands.”

  “Which you hold in trust for the king, who in turn holds them in trust for the High King of Ravvos. You, of all people, should remember the deed’s terms.”

  Tristan’s eyes danced between the two men’s faces as they attempted to stare each other down. He was surprised when the duke took a step backward and swiped his tongue across his lips. “I trust you have the information I sent my courier to request? I would hate to think that I rode all this way to be insulted.”

  “I have the information,” Anthoun said, gray eyes wintry.

  “Very well,” the duke said with a sigh. He held his hand out to his wife as he turned his gaze back to Tristan. “Boy, you will personally see to the care of my carriage horses and ensure my men are fed and housed according to their rank. If you keep a room in the manor, you will find lodging elsewhere for the duration of my stay. I will not sup with a nameless whelp.”

  “Tristan will be attending the meeting as my heir—"

  “Let me be clear about this, old man,” Riand said, rounding on Anthoun. “I am here at King Garoos’s command because he deems your knowledge and advice useful. It is a sentiment I do not share. I have tolerated your impertinence thus far, but I remind you that you are speaking to a peer of the realm. The boy, and you, shall do as I command while I guest in this hovel.”

  Tristan flushed as the duke shouldered between Anthoun and Dougan with his wife in tow. Someone snickered. Though he suspected it was Jakkan, it may have come from
the duke’s attendants. Angry defiance swelled in his chest. All that prevented him from storming away in defiance was Dougan taking his elbow in a firm grip.

  The nobleman stopped short of the threshold to the kitchen, his face blotching with insult as he realized he had been about to enter the wrong door.

  Anthoun rolled his shoulders back with a scowl and extended his hand toward a door further down the front of the house. “If you will follow me, Your Grace, the parlor has been made ready to receive you. I believe you will find it sufficiently comfortable.”

  Dougan waited until the duke and his wife followed behind the sage, then leaned his lips close to Tristan’s ear. He kept his voice low, using the noise of dismounting men to cover his words. “Do as you are bid, son, and mind your tongue and your manners. Remember, these kinds of men can’t take a shit without someone wiping their asses and praising them for the effort. They give respect to those they feel deserve it.”

  Tristan swallowed his irritation and ignored the worried looks Karilen, Sasha, and Jayna gave him as they hurried into the kitchen. He gritted his teeth and turned on his heel to tend to the horses and carriage.

  Chapter 13

  Resentful of how the duke treated one of their own, several of Dorishad’s men helped Tristan tend his assigned duties. The horses and riding mounts were installed in the stable with fresh bins of oats; a few of the men cleaned and polished the tack, while others curried the animals or cleaned the carriage of dust and grime. While the men worked, Jayna led several young women in preparing food for the nobleman’s attendants; others were pressed into service tending the needs of the duke’s wife under Karilen’s supervision.

  It surprised him how they rallied around him; he had always felt that most of Dorishad’s people preferred to pretend he did not exist. Though Jakkan, Rhynna, Mikken, and Beren vanished after seeing Tristan put in what they considered to be his appropriate place, he was startled when Ryjan and Lyona abandoned their friends to lend a hand.

  “We might have our differences, but you’re one of us,” Ryjan said while they used pitchforks to toss hay into the stalls. Lyona handed both him and Tristan cups of cool cider. The hunter’s son nodded his thanks and set aside his tool to watch the young woman set out a simple meal. “They have no right to treat you like they did because you’re an orphan. It’s not like you had a choice in the matter.”

  After several hours of hot and sweaty work, the men dispersed to clean up and change out of their filthy clothing. Tristan remained behind to tend to a few minor tasks after thanking each of them, though he noticed Jayna hovering near the stable doors with a sack clenched in her hands. Once the other departed, he strolled over and forced an amused note into his voice. “What’s this? Sour apples to go with rotten treatment?”

  She avoided his eyes as she handed him the folded stack. “A few changes of shirts and pants, some fresh stockings, and some smallclothes. I also slipped in your brush and some of your books before I managed to escape from the room.”

  His jaw muscles jumped as his teeth clenched, and he took the bag. “Let me guess, the duke’s squire took my room.”

  A wince crossed her face. “The duke tried. The squire said he didn’t want to sleep in a room that stunk like pig shit. He had the gall to say it in front of Anthoun, and I thought Dougan was about to throw the boy through a window.”

  “Lovely.”

  “One of the coachmen ended up with your room. He asked if I came with the furniture, specifically the bed.”

  “Typical noblemen and their servants,” old Geren said, coming around the side of the stable and limping on a stiff leg. He waved aside their startlement with a smirk. “I didn’t mean to be snooping on your conversation – but if my poor hearing can catch your complaining, you’d both best watch your tongues. These types will beat you for it if they think they have cause.”

  “You’ve dealt with them before?” Tristan asked.

  “Not this lot, but I am familiar with the type. So is Dougan. They ought to be glad that there are so many of them, or he’d have them chewing water for a week for behaving so poorly – and I’d be helping.” His voice grew ripe with sarcasm as he took the bundle from Tristan. “I came down here for a purpose. Karilen sent me to find both of you. I wouldn’t keep her waiting were I you, girl; best take yourself back up to the house. She’s in a fine mood.”

  Geren ran his eyes over Tristan, his lips twitching into a frown. “Karilen wants you, too, but I’d wash first. I don’t have much room in my house, but you’re welcome to a spot by the hearth when you have a mind to sleep. If nothing else, it has the benefit of being far from these arsebiters.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  “Least I could do. Off with you both, now. And Jayna?”

  “Yes?”

  “When they aren’t looking, spit in their drinks. It’s shameful how they are behaving with you ladies, and insulting to their hosts.”

  TRISTAN MADE HIS WAY to the manor’s kitchen door after doing his best to wash the stink of sweat and dirt from his skin. There was little he could do about the damp stains under his arms. He had only one suit of new clothes suitable for the visit, and he had been unable to change out of it before tending to the horses and the carriage. The stench of the stables, dirt, and body odor clung to the filthy garment, though he had done his best to clean it while washing himself.

  He stamped his feet on the stone fronting the kitchen’s door to knock off dust and grime before ducking under the lintel. Karilen would murder him if he tracked in dirt, especially with the current guests.

  His eyes swam with purple fog as they adjusted to the candlelit dimness, and he blinked to hurry their adjustment. Several women moved through the kitchen as they served the seven men sitting at the table and in the chairs in front of the low-burning fire. Karilen supervised from beside the cookstove, wearing a grim expression that made the irritable looks on the other women’s faces seem pleasant. Most people knew to run for the fields or have their backsides tanned with a wooden spoon when they caught the expression currently on her face.

  The reason for the women’s mood became clear. The floor sported dirt, dropped food, and spilled drink. Plates of half-eaten roasted chicken cluttered the room’s large table, and vegetables and bread crumbs littered the spaces between bowls of congealing soup and tankards of drink. Duke Riand’s men grunted and pointed at their plates or bowls, swatting the women on the rump as they brought more food and drink. Each of the men was older than Tristan and well-dressed, most in the duke’s colors; he recognized them as the knights who had accompanied the carriage.

  He shrugged as he met Karilen’s eyes, unsure what she wanted from him. Duke Riand had made it clear that Tristan was to be accorded no respect, and he doubted these men would give him any. Karilen gave him a look with which he was all too familiar; his feet rooted themselves to the floor as he obeyed her unspoken command.

  A moment later, heavy-soled boots thumped on the wooden floorboards of the hall beyond the inner kitchen door. These preceded the arrival of a short, solidly built man with shaggy hair brushing his shoulders, speckled with gray to match the goatee framing full lips and a square chin. Unlike the men sitting at the table, his clothing was more elaborate and of finer cut – a russet doublet with slashed sleeves hemmed in embroidered silver fabric, a deep green silk shirt peeking through the open neck, all set off by black velvet knee britches and tall boots. At his left hip swung a gold-hilted rapier, matched on the right hip by a long-bladed parrying dagger.

  “Look at the lot of you,” the man said as he paused in the doorway. His cultured voice froze most of them with their food halfway to their mouths. “Not here a handful of hours, and you’re behaving like drunken louts rather than anointed knights. Apologize for the mess and the trouble you’ve put these ladies to, and get out.”

  All but two of the men dropped their utensils, muttering apologies as their chairs barked against the floor. They stepped around Tristan without looking at him as they e
xited into the commons.

  The remaining men were slightly older than Tristan. One, dressed in Duke Riand’s livery, sat at the table. The other, clad a crimson doublet edged in silver, pushed himself up from one of the chairs in front of the hearth. He tossed a half-eaten chicken leg into the fireplace and licked his fingers clean. “May I remind your lordship that you have no authority over us? Earl of Ressent you may be, but none of us are your liegemen. We answer to the duke.”

  “The duke’s man you may be, Ranal, but you overstep your rank and authority. Anthoun may hold Dorishad by deed of the high king, but I am still nominally his overlord. By insulting him and his, you insult me.” The earl hooked his thumbs in his belt and lifted a dark eyebrow. “If you are intent on doing so, let us step into the commons and test our steel. I’ll face both you and your pup,” he said as his eyes moved toward the knight sitting at the table. “Must I repeat my invitation to leave, or do I throw you and Wistan into the yard?”

  Ranal shrugged and beckoned Wistan to follow him with a thrust of his chin. The pair ducked through the door without acknowledging Tristan or apologizing to the women.

  The earl’s eyes ran across the youth’s dirty clothing before flicking to Karilen. “Is this the boy?”

  “Yes, milord.”

  He swept his fingers at the debris of the meal on the table. “Very well. If you and the ladies will excuse us, I should like a word with him in private. I’m sure we can fend for ourselves, and we shall tend this mess as an apology for the behavior of the duke’s men.”

  “Milord,” Karilen said with a curtsy. She clapped her hands together as she straightened. “Come along, ladies. The bedchambers won’t air themselves, and there are beds to be made.”

  The earl waited until the women filed past him and into the depths of the house, then closed the door and leaned against it. “Well, then. You are Tristan.”

  “I am, milord.”

  “The appropriate way for you to address me is ‘my lord.’ Orphan you may be, but you are the ward son of a landed gentleman and entitled to the forms of address that go with it – as well as the enunciation incumbent with that status.” He folded his arms and met Tristan’s eyes with his earthen brown gaze. “You have no idea who I am, do you?”