Aven’s eyes widened. “Trials?” he asked excitedly. “Then you’re nearly ready to begin training with a master?”
“Nearly,” Relam agreed. “I’m not sure I’m ready, honestly, but Tar Agath thinks I am.”
“I wish I was older,” Aven said, his expression clouding. “I wish I was being trained to fight.”
Relam sighed. Aven was from a poor family, the sort that could work all week and still barely have enough to put food on the table and rent a space in the loft of a stable. “I’m sure Master Agath would take you on if you explained the situation,” he said encouragingly. “Worst case scenario he says no and you’re still working here at the palace. But he could say yes, and then you’re in training.”
“My parents . . .” Aven shook his head. “I’m small anyways,” he said dejectedly. “I’d never make it.”
“I’m not exactly a giant,” Relam snorted, stretching.
“Yeah, well, you’re bigger than I’ll ever be,” Aven muttered, pulling Relam’s practice gear down from the stand. He wrinkled his nose again. “And smellier, too.”
Relam grinned. “Watch out, or I’ll have you thrown in the dungeons.”
“There are no dungeons,” Aven reminded him. “Only cells. And they’re warm and dry.”
“There’s still rats.”
Aven shifted uncomfortably. “Well . . . yes. But there’s also food and water.” He shuddered and looked away.
Relam let it go. He knew he shouldn’t antagonize the younger boy. Aven had a deathly fear of rodents. Relam didn’t know why though.
“There’s got to be something I could do for you,” Relam muttered.
“I don’t want a handout,” Aven said quickly. “My parents would beat me something fierce.”
That was something else Relam didn’t understand. Aven’s parents would beat him for bringing home a little extra food or money? Were they trying to stay poor?
Aven must have seen some of Relam’s confusion in his expression. “They’re proud,” he explained quietly. “They’d see a handout as a sign that people know we’re poor, that we can’t feed ourselves or afford a place to live. They don’t want that.”
“I see,” Relam murmured. Then, an idea struck him. A wonderfully obvious idea. “What about the city guard?” he asked eagerly.
“What about them?” Aven replied carefully.
“You could sign up as an archer,” Relam said quickly. “Your size wouldn’t be a disadvantage then.”
“But you would have to find another servant,” Aven pointed out.
Relam shook his head. “No. You could still do that, too. The archers only train in the morning, when I’m not usually around anyways. Besides, one prince doesn’t generate that much work.” Relam hesitated, experiencing a sudden flicker of doubt. “Does he?” he asked, just to be sure.
“Not this one,” Aven said, smiling. “But will the guard take someone my age?”
“Maybe as a trainee,” Relam suggested. “And in a couple years, maybe you could join up full time. But even if you’re just training you’re still serving the crown and that’s worth a little bit of money at least.”
“Maybe,” Aven said slowly. “It could work. I’ll talk to my parents and let you know tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” Relam said, clapping the younger boy on the shoulder. “Tomorrow it is then. The moment your parents give the go-ahead, I’ll reach out to some of the military men I know. I’ll have my father do the same.”
Aven’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “You think you can get the king to recommend me?” he asked, his hushed voice indicating that he hardly dared speak such a hope aloud lest it shatter.
Relam nodded. “He knows I hold you in high regard. You’re also the only servant that’s lasted more than two years with me. The others were a little too . . .” He hesitated, searching for the right word.
“Interfering?” Aven suggested, his old impudence back. “Too involved maybe? Or perhaps ‘always underfoot’?” He grinned suddenly. “What about, ‘aggravating’?”
“All of the above,” Relam said wearily. “Get going, or I’ll have you on the list too.” He swiped at the younger boy half-heartedly. Aven dodged easily and made for the door, practically bouncing as he moved.
“See you tomorrow!” he said cheerfully, closing the door behind him.
Relam smiled and crossed to the door himself, throwing the latch home. He wondered what Aven’s parents would think of all of this. A recommendation from the king and the prince could go a long way.
But would Relam’s father cooperate? After all, Aven and his family were from the lowest of the low, from a class perspective anyway. Had he overestimated his father’s regard for Relam’s assessment of people?
Relam shook the negative thought aside ruthlessly and crossed to his desk, sitting on the edge of his seat. Whether his father saw reason or not, Relam would see that Aven was admitted to the guard. For now though, while it was night, there was nothing he could do.
Pushing the matter of his servant aside, Relam unlocked a small drawer to the right, built into the supports of the wide desk. He kept important things here, things he did not want to fall into the wrong hands. Money, namely. And other, more personal treasures. He reached past his purse, which clinked audibly when he nudged it, into the furthest corner. There, his hand closed over a strangely shaped wooden object and a small knife in a leather sheath.
Relam drew the two items out, setting the knife on the desk in front of him. He studied the carving by the meager light filtering through the tall windows. He ran a thumb over the finished part of the carving, sighing wistfully.
When he had first learned to read as a child, Relam had spent hours in the royal libraries, flipping through book after book. He’d had plenty of time to do so, since his parents were so often busy with the business of running
