young man of roughly his own age and with a resemblance to the royal family took a seat two places over. Another, perhaps a year younger, took the seat just beyond that. A mutter of conversation filled the room, but Sterren, with his still-poor grasp of Semmat, could not catch any of it.
Then the king entered, followed by an entourage of soldiers and courtiers. Silence fell. Everyone who had been seated rose; Sterren followed suit a bit tardily. The courtiers gradually peeled away from the group and found seats at the long table as the party progressed up the length of the hall, but they remained standing by their chairs.
King Phenvel reached his place and sat, and his guards took up unobtrusive positions along the back wall. He nodded politely, and the rest of the company sat as well. That was the sign for the meal to begin, and the low mutter of conversation resumed. It quickly built up to considerably more than a mutter, punctuated by the occasional clash of cutlery as diners sorted out their table-ware.
The knives and forks appeared to be silver, and Sterren wondered what they were worth.
As yet, he had nothing to eat with them, so he let his own implements lie undisturbed on the tablecloth.
The noise level was roughly that of a busy but well-behaved tavern, and Sterren found that somewhat startling. He had somehow expected a roomful of aristocrats to eat in dignified silence.
That, he realized, was foolish. People were people, regardless of titles.
Other people continued to drift in and take seats as the king exchanged a few pleasantries with the queen. Sterren looked about the room, feeling a little lost.
A middle-aged man sat down to Sterren’s right and smiled at him.
“Hello,” he said, “I’m Algarven, Eighth Kai’takhe.”
“Eighth what?” Sterren asked before he could catch himself.
“Kai’takhe... Oh, you don’t know the word, do you? Let me think.” The fellow blinked twice, frowning, then smiled again, and said, in Ethsharitic, “Steward!”
“You speak Ethsharitic?” Sterren asked eagerly, in Ethsharitic.
Algarven smiled. “No, no,” he said in Semmat, “just a few words.”
“Oh,” Sterren said, disappointed.
He suddenly remembered his manners and introduced himself.
“Oh, we all know who you are,” Algarven assured him.
Somehow, Sterren did not find that reassuring.
“Here, let me tell you who everybody is,” Algarven said. He began pointing.
“You know the king and queen, of course. There to the queen’s left is the treasurer, Adrean.”
Adrean was a plump man of perhaps fifty, making him a decade or so older than Algarven; he wore a heavy gold chain around his neck, and his tunic was an unusually ugly shade of purple.
“Beyond him, that’s old Inria, our Trader. If she were a little younger, she’d have been the one to go and fetch you.”
Inria was an ancient, toothless hag, wearing black velvet and grinning out at the inhabitants of the hall.
“And then there are the three princesses, Nissitha, Shirrin, and Lura...”
“I met them this afternoon,” Sterren remarked.
“Ah! And did you meet the princes?” Algarven turned to the other side and gestured at the four youths there, ranging in age from a young man of perhaps eighteen to a boy of ten or eleven.
“No,” Sterren admitted.
“We have here Phenvel the Younger, heir to the throne, and his brothers Tendel, Rayel, and Dereth.”
“A fine family,” Sterren said.
“The king certainly hasn’t shirked his duty in providing heirs, has he?” Algarven agreed. “And his father didn’t, either; down there at the first table, those three on the end here, that’s the elder Prince Rayel, and Prince Alder, the king’s brothers, and his sister. Princess Sanda. Another brother, the elder Tendel, got himself killed seven years ago in a duel.”
“Ah.” Sterren could not think of anything further to say and was saved from the necessity of inventing something by the sudden arrival of servants bearing trays of food, breads, fruits, meats, and cheeses.
From then on, the meal was simply another meal; Sterren forgot his exposed position on the dais, forgot his improvised garb, and set about filling his belly.
Between bites he continued to make polite conversation with both the steward Algarven and King Phenvel himself, but this largely consisted of simple questions and required little thought. Any time he found himself at a loss for words he simply reached for another orange or buttered a roll.
By the end of the meal he felt fairly comfortable with the royal family and his fellow lords. They were, after all, just people, despite the titles, and he was one of them.
When he reflected on this, he was amazed at himself for accepting his situation so readily.
CHAPTER 8
The barracks adjoining the castle gate was reasonably tidy, but Sterren would not have applied the word “clean” to it. The cracks between the stones of the floor were filled with accumulated black gunk, and cobwebs dangled unmolested in the less-accessible corners of the ceiling. Various stains were visible on the whitewashed walls; some of them, particularly those near the floor, were very unappetizing.
He had certainly seen worse, though; his own room, back on Bargain Street, had been only marginally better.
His belly was pleasantly full, and his head very slightly aswim with wine, and he decided not to pick nits.
He had come directly from the dining hall out to the walls to make this inspection of his troops and their lodging, so as to get it over with. His main purpose, he reminded himself, was to see what sort of men he was supposed to command, not to criticize anybody’s house-keeping.
But still, it seemed to him that a really first-rate group of soldiers would keep their quarters in better shape.
He did not bother to look in the cabinets or kit bags at each station, nor under the narrow beds. He would not have known what to look for, and besides, it seemed like an invasion of the soldiers’ privacy. He glanced at the bunks, each with one blanket pulled taut and another rolled up to serve as a pillow, and could see nothing to comment on.
He walked on through to the armory, where a fine assortment of weapons adorned the walls and various racks. He reached out at random and picked up a sword.
It came away from the rack only reluctantly and left a little wad of rust behind. The area of blade that had been hidden by the wooden brackets was nothing but a few flakes of dull brown rust, and the leather wrapping on the hilt cracked in his grasp. Gray dust swirled up, and he sneezed.
Behind him, he heard some of his men shuffling their feet in embarrassment. He carefully placed the sword back on the rack.
He should, he knew, reprimand somebody for the incredibly poor condition of the sword, but he was unsure who, specifically, to address. Furthermore, even if he was the warlord, he was also a foreigner and a mere youth and not even particularly large. The soldiers were all considerably older and larger than himself. He knew that his title should give him sufficient authority to berate them all despite being so thoroughly outweighed and outnumbered, but he could not find the courage to test that theory.
Maybe later, he told himself, when he had settled in a bit more, he could do something about it.
Even as he thought it, he was slightly ashamed of his cowardice.
“My lord,” someone said, “these are the weapons we use for practice.” A hand indicated a rack near the door.
Sterren picked up another sword. This one was in far better shape, without a spot of rust, the grip soft and supple, but the blade, he saw, was dull.
