Around noon, Relam sheathed his sword and returned to the lean-to and the accompanying rain barrel. The day was slowly warming up, and he was sweating heavily from his exertions. As Relam filled his cup, he was joined by Aven.
“My arms will never be the same again,” he complained. “And I still can’t hit the target every time.”
“You’ll get there,” Relam said confidently, sipping from his cup. “It just takes time.”
Aven shrugged and filled a cup for himself. “I guess I have plenty of time to learn. Still, I was hoping for better results. You hit the target first try.”
“I had formal training.”
“Years ago.”
“Well . . . yes. When I was about your age actually. I don’t remember most of it, but I guess I know enough.”
“More than I do at any rate,” Aven agreed. “What’s the plan now?”
“Lunch,” Relam said, glancing up at the sky. There was not a cloud above them, and the sun was gleaming brightly. “Then we’ll take the afternoon off. It’s going to get a lot warmer.”
“I’m fine with that,” Aven said, grinning and setting the bow to one side along with the arm guard. “Will we practice tomorrow morning?”
Relam was on the point of saying yes when he remembered he was planning to spar with his father the next day. “Not tomorrow.” When Aven frowned, confused, he elaborated. “I’m sparring with my father, and I’m hoping to convince him to recommend you for the guard.”
“And it’s best if I’m not here,” Aven agreed.
“Exactly. The day after we can get some more work done though.”
“Good. Need anything between now and then?”
Relam considered this for a moment. “Check back tomorrow night,” he decided. “That way I can give you the run down on my meeting with my father.”
Aven drained his cup and set it aside. “Alright, see you tomorrow then.”
“See you then, Aven,” Relam replied.
The boy grinned and headed for the courtyard entrance, rolling his shoulders. Relam winced in sympathy. His own muscles were burning, but not painfully. It was the sort of stretched feeling that made him feel as though he had done good work, as though he had accomplished something. But with it came a more powerful feeling of hunger.
Relam’s stomach rumbled alarmingly as though concurring. Shaking his head ruefully, the young prince set down his cup and began the short walk back to his quarters. Lunch would be laid out in the royal dining room, and maybe he would get to eat with his parents. If his father wasn’t in a meeting with a trade official or an advisor or something.
When Relam returned to the royal suite though, he found it empty. A servant hovered in the dining room, alongside several platters laid out on the table.
“Your highness,” he called, bowing. “His majesty the king is in council at the moment, and your mother is visiting friends of the court.”
“Thank you for letting me know,” Relam replied, unlocking his door and hanging up his sword belt. “Any other messages for me?”
“Not at the moment,” the servant replied.
Relam stepped into the dining room, looking curiously at the platters. All the necessaries for a variety of sandwiches were present, meats, breads, spreads, even a large bowl of assorted fruits. Relam quickly assembled a sandwich and chose an apple from the dish, sitting in his usual seat.
He had just taken a large bite from the juicy orb when the door to the royal suite flew open and his father stumped in, followed closely by Lord Clemon. Relam immediately sat up straighter and tried to clear his mouth so he could speak if required. The result was that he choked and spluttered, trying to clear his throat.
His father thumped him on the back as he walked past. “Thanks,” Relam gasped. “How did the meetings go?”
“Terrible,” his father grunted as he assembled his own sandwich. “Four hours, arguing over fractions of a percent in taxes on items headed from Mizzran to Ardia, an extra tax if the goods come by land, which is apparently more dangerous than ever-”
“We could send a small army through the forests west of the Furnier,” Clemon suggested as he helped himself to a sandwich, taking the seat on the king’s other side. “That would clear out the worst of the bandits, I think.”
“No sense in doing that. You would have to renegotiate the taxes again,” Relam said, trying to keep a straight face.
The king roared with laughter. “He’s right, Marc! Wouldn’t want to suffer through that ordeal again, would we?”
“It really wasn’t that bad,” Clemon protested. “The officials from Mizzran are notoriously fair and transparent in their dealings and really quite agreeable people. Now the negotiators from Narne who came to the last major talks in Ardia, they were contentious. Took us a full day just to establish what the purpose of the meetings was!”
“There is no purpose, except to waste my time,” Relam’s father muttered, scowling.
“And to raise your blood pressure,” Relam added, grinning.
“Aye, that too.” The king took a bite of his sandwich, chewing resignedly.
“It is part of running the kingdom, sire,” Clemon said ruefully. “If it was easy, anyone would do it.”
“True.” The king sighed heavily. “What’s on the slate for this afternoon? More trade disputes?”
“It’s the fifth day of the week,” Clemon said, glancing up almost apologetically. “That means you’ll be in court this afternoon.”
The king groaned. “I forgot about that. Any major problems I should be aware of?”
Clemon shook his head. “Just the usual. Some civil disputes, some minor
