He waited for his turn to serve by peering through the doorway into the great hall. He had never seen the room during mealtime, and nothing could prepare him for the clamor of two hundred voices, ripping meat, chewing, and slurping. Brightly-colored gowns and embroidered doublets complemented the polished poplar beams holding up the high ceiling.
As if circumstances didn’t cause him enough sweat, the dozens of torches on the walls and so many bodies crowded together raised the temperature to such a degree, Achan was tempted to go dive into the moat.
A table draped in white linen stretched along a platform at the end of the hall. Prince Gidon Hadar sat in the center on a throne-like chair with a high, carved back. He was tall and strong. A jagged crown of gold sat over his oily black hair. A short, black beard shaded his chin. He looked ridiculous in his gold silk doublet with the red, ruffled sleeves of his shirt flouncing down to his bejeweled fingers. Gren had likely spent hours dyeing the fabric to achieve such a rich shade.
Lord Nathak and his wife sat to the prince’s right. Sir Kenton Garesh, Prince Gidon’s personal protector, also called the
shield,
sat at Gidon’s left. Everything about Sir Kenton was thick but his black hair, which hung like a curtain about his pale face.
Two dozen others sat around them, dining and laughing above those unworthy to sit at the high table. Two more tables extended the length of the great hall, one along each wall, each seating eighty. All seemed to savor Poril’s feast.
When the high table was served, Achan and nine others dressed like him carried tray upon tray of food to the lower tables in the great hall. Achan quickly spotted Lady Tara and her friends on the left wall facing the high table. He made a point of serving the far end of their table, where he would be neither seen nor summoned. When every trencher was full, the servants took their places along the walls. Five on each side stood in a line against the wall three paces back from those seated at the long tables.
Achan stood last in his line, nearest the door, and on the same side as Lady Tara. He watched the back of her head for a while then glanced over the shoulder of a fat man in front of him, who had already emptied his trencher twice. The man looked around greedily. Achan wondered if he might eat the trencher itself. Achan and the servants waited silently against the wall, moving only when summoned.
Someone to Achan’s left snapped his fingers. “Servant. Some wine.”
Achan retrieved a jug from the serving room and filled the man’s goblet. He turned to go back to his place, but a woman dressed in turquoise held up her glass in silent request. Achan barely managed to fill it around her billowing sleeve. More glasses went up. Achan made his way down the table as guest after guest seized the opportunity for a refill. They raised their goblets and continued their conversation, as if the wine magically poured itself.
He spotted Jaira, the catty, braid-wearing, stray-hating noblewoman from Jaelport he had insulted earlier. She was sitting beside Lady Tara. A chill washed over Achan when Jaira lifted her goblet in the air, her olive-skinned fingers clad in copper and silver rings.
The way she held it, high up under his nose while she chattered to Silvo, made it difficult to pour. It would help to get a better angle. The last thing he needed was to spill on this infernal woman. So he plucked the goblet from her hand.
She gasped. “How dare you touch me!”
Conversation around Jaira dwindled and onlookers stared. Achan ignored them, filled Jaira’s goblet, and set it in front of her plate. Out of nowhere a tiny, hairless dog leaped out of Jaira’s lap. It dunked its head inside the goblet and started drinking.
Achan slid back against the wall and bumped into an overweight servant standing there. He flattened himself beside the pot-bellied man. Though he averted his gaze, he felt the burn of many sets of eyes, including Jaira’s. A sinister pressure built in his mind. Trouble.
“Silvo.” Jaira’s chair scraped on the hardwood floor. “Look at this!”
A request for wine at the end of the table sent Achan scurrying in that direction, but someone caught him by the arm and squeezed.
“Pretty strong arm for a servant,” Silvo said.
Achan jerked free and walked toward the passage leading to the kitchens, praying he’d get outside without a scene. A trencher flew over his shoulder. Something whacked the back of his head. He didn’t stop.
“Hey! I’m talking to you, stray!”
Achan paused, breathed deeply, then turned and growled through clenched teeth. “
Sir
?”
Silvo stood, hands on hips, a single dark eyebrow cocked. His narrow eyes glittered. “Get us some wine down here.”
The entire row of guests seated on the left wall seemed to be staring at Achan. Behind Silvo, he could see the blur that was Lady Tara’s golden head turn his way.
“My jug is empty,
sir
,” Achan said. “I need to refill it.”
Something cool nudged his shoulder. Another servant traded a full jug of wine for Achan’s empty one. Achan glared at the servant. Perhaps he could meet this boneheaded slave in the hand-to-hand pen immediately following this humiliation. Where was Sir Gavin anyway?
Achan strode back to Silvo, Jaira, and the rat-dog. He filled Silvo’s goblet. Then Jaira’s. The drunken mutt lay curled by his lady’s trencher, sleeping. Silvo had drained his goblet by the time Achan filled Jaira’s, and the impudent squire clunked it repeatedly against Achan’s jug. Achan filled it again, all the while warmly aware that Lady Tara was watching the scene.
“Tell me,
stray.
” Silvo took another sip. “How does this squire-servant thing work?”
“It doesn’t really,” Achan murmured.
“I would think not.” Silvo snorted, then snarled, “I demand a rematch,
stray
. You embarrassed me in front of a lot of people today and—”
“You embarrassed yourself, Master Hamartano,” Lady Tara said.
Silvo’s eyes widened. His olive cheeks flushed maroon.
Lady Tara cocked an eyebrow and held up her goblet. “May I have some wine, please?”
“Of course, my lady.” Achan took his time filling Lady Tara’s goblet, his own cheeks burning from the effect of her stare.
“I think a man of many talents is quite the man indeed,” she said. “Tell me, Master Hamartano, can you serve wine with one arm? Most servants I’ve seen use two to hold the jug. It must be very heavy.” She looked at Achan. “Pass the jug to Master Hamartano, good sir. I fear Sir Nongo is parched at the high table. We cannot have Master Cham serving
your
knight, can we, Master Hamartano?”
The boiling rage in Silvo’s eyes brought a grin to Achan’s lips. The squire snatched the jug from Achan and glided on agile feet to the high table.
“I see we are even, Master Cham,” Lady Tara said with a coy smile. “Now
I
have rescued
you
.”
Achan smiled down on her. “That you have, my lady.”
“Could you not tell me how you went from squire to servant in half a day?” She sipped her wine, her eyes never leaving his.
His stomach danced a jig. As much as he wanted to talk with her, he remembered his place, and bowed. “Is there anything else you need, my lady?”
“Only your company. Could you not pull up a chair?”
“I could not, my lady. Forgive me.” Achan bowed again, feeling the fool, but enjoying himself nonetheless.
Lady Jaira clucked her tongue. “Really, Tara. You degrade yourself. I don’t understand why you must—”
“Achan!”
It was Sir Gavin’s voice. Achan spotted the knight sitting at the end of the high table itself. The knight was waving him over, his eyebrows trying to send a message Achan couldn’t translate.
Could it have something to do with a servant holding conversation with a noblewoman in the great hall? Although he didn’t sense anger from the knight, Achan blew out a deep breath, turned to Lady Tara, and bowed once more. “Excuse me, my lady.”
He turned to walk the long way around the room to Sir Gavin—in order not to have to pass Silvo at the high table—and met Poril at the entrance. A sense of foreboding closed in on his mind, and from the cook’s bloodshot eyes and clenched teeth Achan figured he’d also seen Achan’s exchange with Lady Tara. Well, why not add a beating to this momentous day?
Knowing Poril would rather die than make a scene in the great hall in the middle of the prince’s coming-of-age celebration, Achan passed him right by and went around to Sir Gavin. He squatted beside the knight’s chair.
“For Lightness’s sake, lad, stand up,” Sir Gavin hissed.
Confused, Achan stood. He preferred the cover of squatting behind the table. He was tired of being stared at and longed to leave the great hall.
“Achan, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Prince Oren Hadar.”
Prince? Achan knew of no claimant to the throne beside Prince Gidon. Achan averted his gaze for a moment, then curiosity won out. He looked up at the man seated beside Sir Gavin. Prince Oren Hadar had black hair, blue eyes, and a long, narrow nose. He wore a thin crown of gold on his head. It was so thin, in fact, that Achan might not have seen it if the torches on the wall hadn’t reflected off the shiny metal. The prince studied Achan with narrowed eyes, as if searching his memory for something.
Achan’s thrilling moment with Lady Tara had left his brain on the other side of the room. He put it to work at once. Was this man in some way related to Prince Gidon? Achan glanced to the center of the table where the prince sat presiding over his coming of age celebration.
“Prince Oren is King Axel’s baby brother,” Sir Gavin said. “Second in line for the throne, behind only Gidon.”
Achan went straight to his knees.
Prince Oren chuckled. “None of that for me, lad. And I’m no baby, ‘baby brother’ though I be.” He winked at Achan. “I think my nephew, Gidon, gets his handsome face from his mother.”
“Bah!” Sir Gavin waved his hand. “Dara was beautiful. That”—he nodded to the prince—“is far from beautiful.”
Achan failed to bite back a laugh. Sir Gavin had better watch himself or he’d be hanged for insulting the prince. People had been hanged for less around here.
The thought of unnecessary cruelty brought Lord Nathak to mind. “Sir Gavin, I need to tell you about what happened today—”
“How did you do?” Prince Oren asked. “Gavin tells me you clobbered Silvo Hamartano.”
“Only because he was over-confident, Your Highness.”
Prince Oren raised an eyebrow. “Modest.”
“No, really,” Achan said. “He assumed because I’m a stray I’d be weak. He led with a move easily deflected by any beginner, leaving him wide open and off balance.”
Again Prince Oren laughed. “I hear Sir Gavin’s logic in your words, my boy.”
“Achan.” It was Poril’s thin voice.
Pig snout!
Would no one let him be for five minutes? Achan turned.
Poril walked toward him as if each step brought the old man closer to death. Approaching the high table without food, wine, or invitation was a good way to meet a noose. Poril’s gaze flickered between Lord Nathak and Prince Oren as if he were unsure who might banish him first.
Achan sighed and looked back to Sir Gavin. “I waited for you at the hand-to-hand pen, but you didn’t return, and Lord Nathak told them I couldn’t compete. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to be beaten for my dual roles at Sitna Manor today.” He glanced across the hall and caught Lady Tara watching him. He grinned. “It was worth it, though.”
Poril whispered, “Achan!” The cook now stood three yards from the high table. He beckoned Achan toward him with the jerk of his head.
Achan had never seen him ask so strange. “Farewell.” Achan bowed his head to Prince Oren. “It was an honor, Your Highness.”
Sir Gavin grabbed his elbow. “See here, you’ll not be whipped because of me.”
Achan waved him off. “Oh, it’s not really your fault, sir, and a very long story.”
Sir Gavin chuckled. “See what I mean? He has that way about him, does he not?”
Prince Oren flashed Achan a curious smile. The stares of both men brought a flush to Achan’s cheeks for no reason he could explain. He sensed a secret in them, something clandestine that somehow involved himself. He swallowed, bowed again to Prince Oren, and started toward Poril, who turned and made a beeline for the kitchens.
Achan was surprised to find Sir Gavin at his heels.
“Sir Gavin!” Lord Nathak’s nasal voice amplified over the chatter, sending an icy chill up Achan’s arms. “A word?”
“I’ll be right back, Achan. Don’t go anywhere.”
But Achan desperately wanted to exit the great hall. He watched Poril’s back, wondering what his reaction would be when he found Achan not following. He sighed. He’d almost take a beating just to feel some cool air on his face.
He stood where Sir Gavin had left him, torn between whom to obey. Then he saw Silvo’s dark eyes spot him. The thin squire stood and started his way, no good on his mind. Achan wasn’t willing to take
that
kind of beating. That settled it. He made a quick exit from the great hall.
He found Poril waiting outside. The cook gripped Achan’s arm as if squeezing juice from a lemon. “Yer through serving, yeh are. Talking with noble folk like yer one of ’em? Never has Poril been in such a place to be forced to interrupt a prince. Gods have mercy on poor, miserable Poril. Lord Nathak said to keep yeh away from the knight, but yeh went right to ’im. What’s Poril to do, I ask yeh? Into the kitchens until Poril can get his belt teh yer hide. That’s what.”
Lord Nathak would never allow Achan to train as a knight, and this proved it. Achan stalked out of the inner bailey. The sun beat down on him as if to laugh at his feeble attempt at a new life. He passed through the outer bailey and stepped into the kitchens.