“I’m called Vaujn,” the kin answered, releasing his grip, “captain in His Royal Majesty’s Upper Watch, Outpost Number Nine.”
Calvraign’s head rushed with a hundred questions about the kin and the Deeps, all of which he decided to ignore. If he wanted to avoid seeming the gawking simpleton, or at least any more of one, he would have to put away his curiosity for a while. As the court’s resident oddity for the past few days – the enigmatic genteel barbarian – he knew how irritating such inquisitiveness could be. In all likelihood, the kinsman just wanted to be treated with the same respect and deference as any other visitor with his rank.
Calvraign turned slightly toward Brohan. “And this is Master Madrharigal, the King’s Bard.”
Vaujn and Brohan exchanged a brief greeting before the kinsman introduced his companion. “And that is Sir Osrith Turlun of the Shaddach Chi. He’s a few other things, too, but you’ll figure that out for yourself soon enough.”
“Shaddach Chi?” echoed Brohan.
The master bard voiced the surprise that lingered in Calvraign’s own thoughts. If there was an elite cadre of warriors that had earned either the fear or respect of all the peoples and races of Rahn, it was they. To his knowledge there had never been a human, or any other race but the underkin themselves, in their ranks. He looked over the knight again, wondering why he was wearing Lady Aeolil’s colors if he were a knight in service to the underkin king. Something about that irritated him, and he identified the jealousy quickly and with a twinge of self-reproach. He remembered Seth’s excited gossip: and rumor has it a messenger arrived in the wee hours with some sort of dire news. Yes, that was probably it. Not that his awareness diluted his jealousy much.
“Sir Osrith was once the Captal of House Vae,” explained Brohan, glancing at Calvraign, his eyes narrowing in a silent caution to his student. “About a ten-year ago, if I remember right.”
The knight stiffened, and realization spread through Calvraign, salving his initial reaction. This was the man Aeolil had mentioned, the one responsible for the death of her father and brother, or at least responsible for not stopping it. Although she’d made it clear enough that she didn’t blame him. Calvraign decided it wasn’t his place to second-guess her. Besides, the man was Shaddach Chi, which had been enough to impress even the unflappable Master Madrharigal.
“Some things are best left in the past, Master Bard.” Osrith’s voice was raw, and he made no attempt to hide the warning in its tone.
“Aye,” agreed Brohan. “Mistakes I leave to rot with time, with lessons learned in present mind. Or so says the Old Sage himself, eh?”
“Right,” snapped Osrith, with little agreement or enthusiasm in his sarcasm.
Calvraign didn’t think the philosophies of the Learned Corrison offered much in the way of comfort to the knight. Such phrases were mainstays of households both plain and noble, but a bit cloy when confronted with such a harsh example of adversity. If Brohan had a weakness, it was not knowing when to leave off teaching or lecturing, and perhaps more importantly, to whom he shouldn’t teach or lecture. Calvraign decided it best to change the subject as quickly as possible. “When do you expect the Lady Aeolil?” he asked.
“At her convenience,” said Osrith. “She’s busy with matters of state, from what I gather.” The once-captal paused, and Calvraign felt himself undressed and unarmed before his powerful scrutiny. “What business have you with Her Ladyship?”
“Perhaps it’s more appropriate to ask what business she has with us, Sir Osrith,” said Brohan, whose attention hadn’t wavered from the knight for a moment. “We are here at her request. She and Sir Calvraign have matters to discuss.”
That brought a chuckle from the dour lips of the Shaddach Chi. “Sir Calvraign, is it? I’ve seen youngsters in the lists before, but don’t they usually have their whiskers before their spurs?”
Vaujn made a rather lame attempt to hide his laughter behind a fist, in guise of a cough, and Calvraign split his glare evenly between the two of them. He was still a little uncomfortable with his knighthood himself, and not much more secure in his girlishly smooth face. But he didn’t want the wound to show. Once a wound was obvious, it became a target for repeated attack, and Calvraign had no wish to go over this territory more than once.
“I suppose I haven’t really earned either, as yet,” he said with as much calm as he could muster. “My father evidently had enough whiskers and bravery for the both of us.” Calvraign ran a hand along his cheek with a wry smile. “I’m hoping I’ll grow into it, though.”
“Fair enough,” Osrith said, but Vaujn still hid his mouth behind his fist.
“Excuse me,” Stefan’s voice interrupted from the cracked doorway. “Lady Aeolil requests that you all proceed to the Bridge House Gate. She has sent word that she will meet you there.”
“Well,” said Osrith, “let’s not keep her waiting.”
Calvraign couldn’t help but agree. Aside from the prospect of seeing her again, which held considerable appeal, he didn’t want to miss even a moment of the Opening Melee. Even if it meant he had to wait a little longer to hear Aeolil’s news, whatever that was, he suspected that seeing the best knights of the realm engaged in mock battle would keep him suitably entertained. In fact, he decided, the distraction would do him good.
“No, no, no!” screamed the Chief Steward, directly in Seth’s left ear. “Not so thin, damnit! I said slice them fine and narrow, by the Fiery Pits, not bloody well transparent!” Seth stared down at the mess he’d made of some perfectly good potatoes and cringed. This was a poor choice of days to disappoint Markus, whose patience was already stretched to the limit by the demands of the Winter Festival’s many feasts. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking midway through the apology. “I was-”
“Shut up!” Markus railed, causing Seth to flinch. The Chief Steward’s pale complexion was gaining color dangerously fast, and sweat beaded on his brow from the heat of the ovens roasting beef, mutton and fowl. The rest of the kitchen staff went about their work, too busy to take notice of someone else’s misfortune.
“You gettin’ a mite big in the britches, Mister Briggin? You forgotten what real work’s all about, now that you order others around to do it for you? You’d think y’ hadn’t seen the kitchen in a ten-year!”
“N…no sir, I-”
“Shut up!” Markus repeated, with even greater volume. “Put down the knife before you make a bigger mess of things!”
Seth practically threw it down next to the thinly sliced potatoes. He didn’t say a word, realizing that Markus had no desire to hear his voice for any reason. He waited meekly for whatever punishment he might receive. The sooner Markus told him, the sooner he could get to work at it and dig his way out of disfavor. Again.
“Burton needs your help upstairs,” explained the Chief Steward, somewhat more calm of voice, but no less red of face, “and I suggest you put a little more concentration into it than you did down here. He’s not as forgiving as I am.”
Seth knew that to be true from painful personal experience, and decided not to test the castellan’s patience as he’d unwittingly tested Markus. “Yes, sir.”
“Right then. Go wash some of that grime off ye, so you’re presentable, and get up to the Malminnion’s apartments. Baron Ezriel is just recently in, and you know how exacting he can be. And don’t dally any or I’ll tan whatever hide Burton leaves over for me!”
Seth was off in a blink, running with reckless haste through the busy kitchen, dodging and weaving between the staff and narrowly avoiding several collisions on his way. Men and women balancing dishes, foodstuffs, and wood for the fire all called out after him to be more attentive, but Seth paid them no mind. He didn’t want to keep Burton, and consequently Lord Malminnion, waiting any longer than necessary.
As he careened out the door leading to the pantry, and beyond to the spiral stair and escape, he ran headlong into the heavyset Dar. The chief cook’s assistant stumbled, balancing an armful of
dry goods, and shouted a particularly lewd insult as Seth darted past. He climbed up and away two steps at a time, skipping over the uneven trip-step hiding a third of the way up the flight without a second thought.
Seth passed the first landing without pause, and the second, finally slowing by the time he reached the third. He was ascending at a normal rate by the time he reached the fifth level, his breathing strained, and here he exited the stair. Directly ahead was the door to the central barracks, but they were still an hour or more from reveille, and he had no desire to disturb their hard earned slumber. He turned up the hall to his right, which led thirty feet to the northeast barracks. Their watch had started before dawn and he found it empty, as he’d expected. He ran around to his right toward the washbasin. There was some fresh water left in the granite bowl, and Seth began sponging himself off with a stray cloth.
The cold water helped him gain a little focus on the events of the morning. The words that Sir Calvraign and Master Madrharigal had so casually tossed around still troubled him, and he knew that distraction had cost him some of Markus’ respect. He regretted that. Markus had always been fair with him, if more than a little stern. Normally Seth was very good at doing his job with a single-minded attention to detail. Knowing what was going on and allowing oneself to be distracted by it were two very different things. He’d not followed that rule today, and he resolved to better discipline himself in the future, or someone else surely would.
With that thought in mind, Seth quickly checked his reflection in the piece of polished steel that served the soldiers as a crude mirror. He was presentable, at least, but he couldn’t say much more than that. His limited time allowed for nothing more thorough, however, and he backtracked to the stairs at a brisk pace.
The apartments of House Malminnion weren’t in the Central Keep, but the smaller South Keep, and it took Seth at least ten clicks to make his way up to and across the thin catwalk that connected the towers. He wasn’t overly fond of the Flying Bridge, an expanse of stone not more than three feet in width that spanned the sixty-foot gap between the keeps. There was no railing, only a guide rope that he clung to most insistently. In his mind it was not near enough insurance against the deadly plummet to the rocks over a hundred feet below. He felt the solid construction of the South Keep under his soles after quick but careful passage over the bridge, and breathed an audible sigh of relief. It wasn’t so much that he was afraid of heights, but he was acutely aware of them.
The guards hardly blinked as he passed. There weren’t many of the servants better known about King’s Keep than Seth, and the guards on this side of the bridge paid him no more heed than the other. He made his way through the apartments of House Myrtma, then down a flight to those of House Malminnion. The House Guard pointed him in the direction of Burton, and three long hallways and a sharp left turn brought him to the door of Baron Ezriel’s Master Bedroom and thus right to the base of the castellan’s boot. There were four young girls carrying in supplies through the door, but they kept their eyes down at their feet. The servants of the Malminnion brothers weren’t known for their independent spirit. Not for long, anyway.
“There you are!” The portly old castellan gave Seth a quick looking over, frowning unpleasantly all the while. “I was beginning to wonder if Markus was going to part with you before the New Year.”
“He told me to –”
“Yes, yes, keep the excuses to yourself, Mister Briggin, we have work to do.”
“Yes sir,” said Seth, wondering if anyone would let him finish a sentence today.
“Lord Garath evidently overlooked mentioning that his esteemed brother would be joining us for the festival,” explained Burton, “and his accommodation is far from ready. I can’t waste any more time over here, I’ve things enough to occupy me back in the Central Keep. I leave it to you.”
Seth’s stomach fell through his shoes. “Excuse me, sir?”
The castellan’s jaw hardened. “I said I leave it to you. I’ve no one else on staff available right now. Take care of it. And get to work, his servants are at your disposal, but I don’t want to hear that you’ve been slacking off. Do you understand me, Mister Briggin?”
“Yes, sir. When will Lord Ezriel be arriving?”
Burton was already on his way out the door. “Arriving?” His laugh was decidedly unsympathetic. “He’s here already! You have until after the tourney today to make ready. He’s occupied with his brother for now. And remember, it’s Lord Malminnion now. He’s no lordling, he’s the baron.”
Seth’s eyes widened as he looked about the room. There were no linens, no bed sheets, a fine layer of dust lay over everything, and the hearth was dead cold and empty. And that was just what he noticed straight away. He began making a list in his head, prioritizing the tasks he needed to complete and trying to calculate his chances of succeeding in the scant time allotted. He wondered if Burton much cared one way or another.
Seth cleared his head. No sense worrying about that yet, he thought. There was too much to do. “Ladies,” he said, clapping his hands lightly to get their attention. They looked up like scolded dogs, all except the last one – she had some fire left in her eyes – and Seth felt a little guilty. “My name is Mister Briggin,” he continued, softening his tone but making sure to retain an element of authority. “I’m afraid we don’t have much time for introductions, so I’ll learn your names as we go. First of all, one of you bring all that back into the hall. We need to do a thorough cleaning before we clutter up the room. I need another of you to go to the storeroom in the basement and ask the porter to bring up three loads of firewood. In the meantime, you other two can help me clean up. I’ll get some hot water and berrin seed oil, and then we can get started.”
“I’ll go find the porter,” the lively-eyed girl stated.
Seth watched after her as she left, struck silent by the casual confidence of her voice and her comportment. As she reached the hall, her head dropped, and her shoulders sagged, transforming her seamlessly into a meek servant girl once more. Seth grinned. A fox in the hen house, eh?
By the time Seth returned from fetching the supplies he required, Lord Malminnion’s servants had cleared the chests of their master’s belongings from the bedroom, and even began dusting. He joined them with a smile and a nod of approval, glad that they were neither trying to avoid the work nor waiting for his specific command to start it.
Seth delegated the workload as fairly as he could, avoiding the temptation to give himself the most demanding work. If there was one lesson he had learned from Burton, it was to keep some semblance of distance between the one giving orders and those taking them. He should work hard, but appropriately, so that his subordinates would appreciate his help without depending on him too much.
The elder brother Malminnion had been away from his quarters here for more than two years, and the work was slow going. The last two times he had visited the capital, Ezriel had stayed at Saint Severun’s. As a knight lieutenant general in the Order of Irdik, he spent increasingly more time with his ecclesiastical brothers than with the aristocrats and politicians of King’s Keep. Why he’d chosen to house himself here this time around wasn’t really an issue that concerned Seth, other than the challenge it posed to arrange on such short notice. They made steady progress, and Seth encouraged them to talk as they worked, even managing to learn their names in the process.
Iaede and Braede were sisters, separated by only a year at fourteen and fifteen respectively. They had been in Ezriel’s household since they were little girls, and were quick to follow orders. They spoke little at first, but warmed to Seth’s amiable and unassuming presence. Deirdre was older, at sixteen, and quiet. She answered any and all questions in the briefest fashion possible, though always respectful, carefully measuring the cost of her syllables. Seth didn’t invest much time in prying any more talk from her lips; conversation was incidental to the task at hand.
The door swung open with a bang, and Seth turned, alarmed at the nois
e. He was even more alarmed at what he saw next. The girl who’d gone for lumber had reappeared, an oversized load of firewood stacked in her arms. She was breathing hard, and sweating, but there was only the faintest tremble in her shoulders from the weight of her burden. Seth scrambled to help, flustered at seeing the young girl with such a heavy load, and directed her toward the iron bassinet next to the hearth. He knelt down and helped her unload the wood.
“Where’s the porter, girl? I didn’t mean for you to carry all this yourself!” Seth couldn’t believe she’d taken it upon herself to bring the wood, let alone such a hefty load. He removed and stacked the logs as quickly as he could. “It’s seven, no, eight flights from the basement!”
“Aye,” she breathed, sticking out her lower lip and blowing a stray clump of her short brown hair from her sticky brow. “But I’d’ve more luck finding a unicorn than your porter, today. And if we don’t get that fire started soon, we’ll not warm this place afore evening.”
Seth was transfixed by the frankness in her rich chestnut eyes as she spoke, wide and round on the doe-white skin of her face. He found her accent, though thicker than the other girls’, to be strangely familiar. There was a lilting softness to her vowels, made all the more noticeable by the harshness with which she ground out her consonants.
“You’re very beautiful,” he blurted, the words spilling out before he could trap them safely in his throat. He really hadn’t intended to speak his revelation aloud, and found the temperature in the frigid room suddenly much too warm. “For a porter,” he added lamely, his voice breaking in mid-sentence. “You should let him do this kind of work.”
The girl smiled at him with a questioning look, clearly amused and surprised at his words. “Shush now, or you’ll make the others jealous,” she teased in a whisper. She winked as she stood, brushing bits of wood from her plain servant’s garb.
In Siege of Daylight Page 47