Hidden Warrior (9 page)

“I can’t think of anything,” he admitted at last.

This was greeted with good-natured hoots and catcalls,
but he overheard Urmanis’ sister Lilyan whispering meanly to Aliya, “Always has to play the simple rustic lord, doesn’t he?”

“Perhaps the prince would rather have a different sort of gift,” Tharin suggested. “A journey, perhaps?”

Korin grinned. “A journey? Now there’s a gift we could all share in. Where would you like to go, Tobin? Afra, perhaps, or down to Erind. You won’t get better fried eels anywhere and the whores there are said to be the finest in Skala.”

Caliel threw an arm around his friend’s neck, trying to stem the drunken ramble. “He’s a little young for that, don’t you think?”

He gave Tobin a sympathetic wink over Korin’s shoulder. Caliel and Tanil were the only ones who could steer Korin when he was this deep in his cups.

Still at a loss, Tobin looked back at Tharin. The man smiled and raised a hand to his breast, almost as if he were pointing at something.

Tobin understood at once. Touching the lump his father’s seal ring made under his tunic, he said, “I’d like to see my estate at Atyion.”

“Only that far?” Korin regarded him with bleary disappointment.

“I’ve never seen it,” Tobin reminded him.

“Well then, to Atyion it is! I could use a new horse and the herds there are the best this side of the Osiat.”

Everyone cheered again. Warmed by his little triumph, Tobin allowed himself a deep swallow of wine. Lord Orun had always found some excuse for Tobin not to go. In this, at least, Korin had the final say.

W
ell, well. Look who’s back,” Mago sneered as Ki helped collect the scraps for Ruan’s alms basket.

“Yes, look who’s here,” Arius, Mago’s shadow and echo, chimed in, jostling Ki’s arm. “Our grass knight has
come home. I hear Lord Orun’s been fuming mad at you, letting the prince run off like that.”

“Master Porion isn’t too happy with you, either,” Mago gloated. “How do you fancy kneeling on the temple steps again? How many lashes do you suppose he’ll have your prince give you this time?”

For an answer, Ki stuck his foot out and sent Mago sprawling with the platter of roast lamb he’d been carrying.

“Tripping over your own feet again, Mago?” Tanil chuckled as he passed. “You’d better get that cleaned up before Chylnir catches you.”

Mago scrambled to his feet, his fine tunic covered in grease. “Think you’re pretty clever, don’t you?” he spat at Ki. Then, to Tanil, “If I’m so clumsy, maybe Sir Kirothius here should finish the job by himself.” He stalked off toward the kitchen with the empty platter. Alius shot Ki a dangerous look as he trotted off after Mago.

“No need to get yourself in trouble over me,” Ki mumbled as he gathered the scraps. It embarrassed him that Tanil had heard the other boys’ taunts.

But the head squire’s eyes were bright with suppressed laughter. “Not your fault that he can’t keep his feet, now, is it? That was a nice little move. Will you teach me?”

I
t was after midnight when Tharin and Caliel accompanied the princes to their bedchambers. Korin was blind drunk, and after several attempts to fall on his nose, Tharin picked the prince up and carried him to his door.

“Good night, sweet coz. Sweet, sweet coz,” Korin warbled, as Tanil and Caliel took charge of him. “Sweet dreams to you and welcome home! Caliel, I think I’m going to puke.”

His friends hurried him inside, but from the sounds that followed, they weren’t quick enough getting him to a basin.

Tharin shook his head in disgust.

“He’s not always like that,” Tobin told him, always quick to defend his cousin.

“Too often for my taste, or his father’s, I’d say,” Tharin growled.

“Mine, too,” muttered Ki, lifting the latch at their door.

The door fetched against something as he tried to open it. There was a grunt of surprise from the other side, then their page, Baldus, swung it wide, grinning at Tobin with sleepy delight. “Welcome home, my prince! And Lord Tharin, it’s good to see you again.”

Tapers had been left burning and the room was sweet with the welcoming scents of beeswax and the pines outside the balcony.

Baldus hurried to pull back the heavy black-and-gold bed hangings and turn down the covers for them. “I’ll fetch a warming pan, my prince. Molay and I were so glad to hear you were coming back at last! Sir Ki, the baggage is in the dressing room. I’ve left it for you to unpack, like always.” He stifled a huge yawn. “Oh, and there’s a letter from your guardian, Prince Tobin. Molay left it there on the writing table, I think.”

So Old Slack Guts wasted no time, after all
, thought Tobin, picking up the folded parchment. Judging by the way that Baldus was looking anywhere but at Ki, his squire’s precarious situation was no secret.

“Go sleep in the kitchen where it’s warmer,” Tobin told the boy, not wanting an audience. “And tell Molay I don’t require him tonight. I just want to go to sleep.”

Baldus bowed and dragged his pallet out with him.

Bracing himself, Tobin broke the seal and read the few brief lines.

“What does it say?” Ki demanded softly.

“Just that he’ll summon me tomorrow and I’m to come alone.”

Tharin read it for himself, scowling. “Alone, eh? Sounds like the Lord Chancellor needs reminding who he’s dealing with. I’ll have an honor guard waiting. Send word when
you need us.” He clapped them both on the shoulder. “No long faces, boys. Worrying yourselves sick tonight won’t help. Get some sleep and whatever happens tomorrow, we’ll deal with it then.”

Tobin wanted to take Tharin’s advice, but neither he nor Ki could find much to say as they got ready for bed. They lay in silence for a long time, listening to the embers tinkling on the hearth as they cooled.

Finally, Ki nudged Tobin’s foot with his own and gave voice to both their fears. “This could be my last night here.”

“Hope not,” Tobin croaked, his throat tight.

It seemed like a long time before Ki fell asleep. Tobin lay still until he was certain, then slid out of bed and carried a candle into the dressing room.

Their traveling bundles were piled on the floor. Opening his he reached down to the bottom and pulled out the doll. He knew he didn’t need to touch it to cast the summons, but he distrusted Brother more than ever now and wasn’t taking any chances here.

Alone in the dark, he realized he was again afraid of the ghost, more than he had been since Lhel gave him the doll. But even that didn’t stop him from whispering the words; Brother sometimes knew the future, and Tobin couldn’t sleep until he’d at least asked.

When Brother appeared, bright as a flame in the dim little chamber, he still had that too-real look.

“Will Orun send Ki away tomorrow?” asked Tobin.

Brother just looked at him, still and silent as a painting.

“Tell me! You’ve told me other things.”
Mean, hurtful things, and lies
. “Tell me!”

“I can only tell what I can see,” Brother whispered at last. “I don’t see him.”

“See who? Orun or Ki?”

“They’re nothing to me.”

“Then you’re no good me!” Tobin shot back bitterly. “Go away.”

Brother obeyed and Tobin hurled the doll back into its old hiding place atop the dusty cupboard.

Returning to the bed, he climbed in and snuggled close to Ki. Rain was pattering on the roof and he listened to it, waiting in vain for sleep to take him.

I
t was raining even harder the next morning. All around the Companions’ wing servants were setting out pails and basins to catch the water leaking through the ancient ceiling.

The weather had never made any difference to Master Porion. Tobin woke Ki as soon as he heard servants moving past in the corridor, and they made certain they were the first ones waiting for the swordmaster at the palace doors. Despite what Mago had said, the stocky old warrior seemed genuinely glad to have them back.

“All well, are you?” he asked, looking them over. “You don’t look much the worse for wear.”

“We’re fine, Master Porion,” Tobin assured him. “And we practiced while we were gone, too.”

That earned them a skeptical look. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

They had both mended. Even Ki, who’d been the sickest, kept up with the others as they set off on their morning run. Splashing though puddles and squelching through mud with their short cloaks flapping wetly against their thighs, the Companions ran the long circuit around the park, past the tomb and the drysian grove, around the reflecting pool and past the New Palace, and ending as they always did at the Temple of the Four at the center of the park.

The boys’ morning offerings were usually cursory affairs, but today Tobin spent several minutes at Sakor’s altar, whispering fervently over the little wax horse before casting it into the flames. Then, when he thought no one was
looking, he sidled over to the white marble altar of Illior and cast one of Iya’s owl feathers onto the incense-laden coals.

L
ord Orun’s summons came just as they were finishing their bread and milk in the messroom. Tharin must have been keeping watch, because he came in with the messenger. Dressed in a fine blue tunic, with every buckle and brooch polished, he cut an impressive figure. Korin gave Tobin an encouraging wink as he and Ki went out.

When they were out of earshot, Tharin dismissed the messenger and turned to Ki. “Wait for us at Tobin’s house, why don’t you? We’ll meet you there on our way back.”

Tobin and Ki exchanged grim, knowing looks; if the worst did come to pass, they wouldn’t risk shaming themselves in front of the other Companions.

Ki punched Tobin on the shoulder. “Stand your ground with him, Tob. Good luck.” With that he strode away.

“You’d better change out of those wet things,” said Tharin.

“I don’t give a damn what Orun thinks!” Tobin snapped. “I just want this over with.”

Tharin folded his arms and gave Tobin a stern look. “So you’re going to go before him dressed like a common soldier, muddy to the knees? Remember whose son you are.”

Those words again, and this time they stung. Tobin hurried back to his chamber, where Molay had a steaming basin and his best suit of clothes ready for him. Washed and changed, Tobin stood in front of the polished mirror and let the valet comb his black hair smooth. A grim, plain boy in velvet and linen scowled back at him, ready for battle. Tobin looked into his own reflected eyes, feeling for a moment as if he were sharing a secret with the stranger hidden behind his face.

*     *     *

O
run’s grand house stood in the maze of walled villas clustered on the New Palace grounds. Bisir met them at the door and ushered them into the reception hall.

“Good morning!” Tobin greeted him, glad to find one friendly face here. But Bisir hardly spoke and wouldn’t meet his eye. It was as if a single night back in his master’s house had undone all the good his time at the keep had accomplished. He looked as pale as ever, and Tobin saw new bruises on his wrists and neck.

Tharin had seen, too, and an angry flush came over his face. “He has no right—”

Bisir shook his head quickly, stealing a quick glance toward the stairs. “Don’t trouble yourself on my account, my lord,” he whispered, then, aloud, “My master is in his chamber. You may wait in the reception chamber, Sir Tharin. The Chancellor will speak with the prince alone.” He paused, clasping his hands nervously, and added, “Upstairs.”

For a moment Tobin thought Tharin was going to storm up with them. The man’s dislike of Orun was no secret, but Tobin had never seen him so angry.

Bisir stepped nearer to Tharin, and Tobin heard him whisper, “I’ll be close by.”

“See that you are,” Tharin muttered. “Don’t worry, Tobin. I’ll be right here.”

Tobin nodded, trying to feel brave; but as he followed Bisir upstairs, he drew out the ring and seal and kissed them for luck.

He’d never been upstairs before. As they continued down a long corridor toward the back of the house, Tobin was amazed at the opulence of the house. The carvings and tapestries were of the best quality and the furnishings rivaled anything in the New Palace. Young servant boys scattered out of their way as they passed. Bisir ignored them as if they didn’t exist.

He stopped at the last door and let Tobin into the
enormous chamber beyond. “Remember, I’ll be right out here,” he whispered.

Trapped, Tobin looked around in surprise. He’d expected a private sitting room or salon, but this was a bedchamber. An enormous carved bedstead dominated the center of the room. Its hangings—thick yellow velvet edged with tiny golden bells—were still closed. So were the draperies at the windows. The paneled walls were hung with tapestries of green woodland scenes, but the room was as hot as a smithy and heavy with the aroma of cedar logs blazing and snapping on the enormous stone hearth.

Even Prince Korin’s room was not so lavish, Tobin thought, then started as bells on the bed hangings tinkled softly. A plump white hand emerged and drew back one of the heavy curtains.

“Ah, here is our little wanderer, returned at last,” Orun purred, waving Tobin closer. “Come, my dear, and let me see how you weathered your illness.”

Propped up against a mass of pillows, Lord Orun was wrapped in a yellow silk dressing gown; a large velvet bed cap of the same color covered his bald head. A crystal lamp hung from a chain, casting shadows that made his face seem more sallow than ever, his heavy flesh slacker on his bones. The counterpane was strewn with documents and the remains of a large breakfast lay on a tray beside him.

“Come closer,” Orun urged.

The edge of the mattress was nearly level with Tobin’s chest. Forced to look up at the man, Tobin could see the grey hairs in his guardian’s large nose.

“Do have a seat, my prince. There’s a stool just behind you.”

Tobin ignored it, letting his scorn show as he set his feet and clasped his hands behind his back so this man wouldn’t see them trembling. “You sent for me, Lord Orun, and I am here. What do you want?”

Orun favored him with an unpleasant smile. “I see your time away hasn’t improved your manners. You know why you’re here, Tobin. You’ve been a naughty boy and your uncle has heard all about your little escapade. I wrote him a long letter as soon as we discovered where you’d gone. Of course, I did my best to shield you from his displeasure. I put the blame where it belonged, on that ignorant peasant squire you’re lumbered with. Though perhaps we shouldn’t blame poor Kirothius too much. I daresay he suits you well enough out there in the wilds, but how could he be expected to keep proper watch over a princess’ son at court?”