“More like three,” the king observed drily.
Relam shook his head and closed the door, practically running into the washroom. He bathed at top speed and dried off so forcefully his skin turned red in places. Then, he dressed in his finest: black breeches, a royal blue tunic with a silver crown over the left breast and a dark blue half cape hanging from his right shoulder. He exchanged his everyday belt for a wider one of black leather with silver tracery and an ornate buckle. There was a ceremonial sword and scabbard attached. Relam eyed these critically, then withdrew the sword, which was little more than a dull bit of metal stuck on a fancy hilt.
“I think a real blade would be a little more practical,” he muttered. He grabbed his everyday sword, removed it from its sheath. It fit just barely in the ceremonial sheath, but it wasn’t quite the right shape so the hilt jiggled slightly and the smallest stretch of steel was exposed around the top of the scabbard. It would only be noticed if someone looked extremely closely though.
“Relam?” his father called. “Commander Narin is here, waiting on us.”
Relam tugged at his tunic one last time, eliminating two wrinkles and creating another, then bolted out into the main room. “Sorry,” he said breathlessly. “Overslept.”
“Fair enough. You’ve had a busy day covering for us,” his mother said warmly. “You look wonderful, Relam.”
“Yes, very princely,” his father agreed, rolling his eyes in exasperation. He had little patience for court finery, but somehow he had been wrestled into a flamboyant purple and gold doublet and beige trousers, a cloth-of-gold cloak swinging from his shoulders. He wore the crown of the Sthan Kingdom as well, burnished bronze and gold with eleven twisted points.
“And you look extremely kingly,” Relam said, trying to keep a straight face.
“Just as long as he doesn’t trail his sleeves in the gravy or wipe his fingers on his shirt front,” the queen said critically, adjusting the set of the crown slightly.
“Can we get going, Narin?” the king pleaded, swatting the queen’s hands away as she tried to straighten a crease in the doublet. “Wouldn’t want to be late after all.”
“No danger of that, your majesty,” Narin replied. Then, noticing how Orram’s expression hardened he said quickly, “There’s nothing wrong with being early though.”
“Well said,” Relam agreed, eager to get moving before his mother could start fussing with his attire as well. “Lead on, commander.”
Narin ushered them out into the hallway, which was packed with palace guards. Before anyone could protest at the excessive number of soldiers, Narin had eight formed up around the royal family and the remaining six stationed in and around the royal apartments.
“Merely a precaution, your majesties, your highness,” Narin said grimly. “I don’t want anyone intercepting us in route and it would be extremely embarrassing if you were safe all through the banquet only to return and find assassins in your rooms. You will arrive with just me as a guard. The others will split off in pairs and patrol the entrance hall and the banquet hall. Is that a satisfactory arrangement?”
“Of course, commander,” the king replied. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for trusting me to do my job,” Narin replied, bowing slightly. “Guards, attention!”
The palace guards snapped to attention, standing in two rigid ranks of four. The king and queen stood between them, trying to look strong and in control despite their lingering illnesses. Relam followed a pace behind, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his not-so-ceremonial sword.
“Forward!” Narin said resolutely, stepping off at a slow pace. The guards copied him in perfect step, the hallway echoing with the sound of their booted feet hitting the stone floor. The king and queen began moving as well after a moment, striding gracefully and calmly in the midst of the palace guards. Relam followed at a measured pace. Every so often, he looked back to make sure there was no one following them. But the corridors remained empty.
It was not long before they arrived at the top of the stairs that led down into the entrance hall. Narin raised his left hand in a clenched fist, and the guards crashed to a halt.
“You have your instructions, men,” he said gravely. “Carry them out to the letter. The moment you see something suspicious alert me. If you are outnumbered and alone, do not engage. Retreat and find help. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir!” the guards chorused.
“Dismissed,” Narin finished curtly.
The palace guard peeled off in twos, their heavy spears held perfectly upright, their flanged armor glittering in the light of the lanterns lining the hallway.
“Now we wait,” Narin said, turning to face the royal family. “We still have ten or fifteen minutes until you are expected to arrive. The other guests will be gathering below. The herald will introduce you, and then everyone will move to the banquet hall. There is only one table since there are so few attendees. The three of you will take the head, and I will be beside the prince. Next, those great lords whose children are not Cadets, then the Cadets and their families.”
“Where is Garenes?” Relam asked curiously.
“Far end of the table,” Narin grunted. “Oh, and the sword masters will all be there.”
“How many?”
“Four,” Narin replied immediately. “D’Arnlo, Agath, Yavvis, and Oreius.”
“Who?” Relam asked. He did not recognize the last two names.
“Yavvis trains those of common birth that have passed the trials,” Narin explained. “That’s why you have never met him. Agath and D’Arnlo you know. Oreius . . .” the guard commander shrugged. “He is the oldest of the masters, and has not accepted a
