The High King's Tomb
Page 139
“My lord,” Barrett said, “the G’ladheon bitch is here.”
Someone, Karigan thought, ought to drop Barrett out of a tower window. The receiving room turned to silence except for the artist’s brush swishing across the canvas. The colonel looked up. He was a hard man with those features—they appeared chiseled from ice. Unlike Timas, his scarlet uniform bore little decoration aside from his insignia, and his sword and sheath were not ornate but serviceable looking. This colonel was no fop but a genuine warrior.
“My Lord Barrett,” the colonel said in a deceptively mild voice, “that is not how we speak of the king’s messengers.”
“With this one it is,” Barrett said. “Besides, you can’t tell me what to do, Birch. I’m lord-steward, if you remember, and you answer to me.”
The colonel’s mouth became a thin line, and it was difficult to read what went on in his mind, but Karigan knew Barrett was making a mistake by speaking to him in such a manner. The colonel did not look like one to tolerate fools, no matter their title and status.
“Barrett.” It was Timas. The Noble One spoke, but did not alter his pose.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Shut up. Birch answers to me.”
“But—”
“Would you like me to order Colonel Birch to shut you up?”
Barrett clenched and unclenched his hands, but he obeyed and said nothing. The colonel’s mouth curved into a cold smile.
“Leastways,” Timas continued, “we do not speak of the king’s messengers in that manner while they are present.”
Barrett sniggered.
Karigan felt Fergal stiffen beside her. Back at the inn she’d lectured him about not drawing weapons in the presence of nobles; weapons were only a last recourse when one’s life was in danger. Insults did not count. She’d made sure he knew she appreciated his gesture of standing up for her yesterday, and in fact she’d been genuinely touched, but she needed him to understand that drawing a weapon in the face of mere words was not an option.
Barrett really could have imprisoned Fergal, and in prison he would have sat till she could obtain clemency from the king, which would have involved the journey all the way to Sacor City and back. Fergal, in the meantime, would be at the mercy of the Mirwellians. He had apologized and promised he wouldn’t draw steel on Barrett unless he had to kill him. Fergal had looked as though he hoped an opportunity would present itself.
“You must excuse my steward,” Timas said. “He is newly come to his position and has yet to learn discretion in public.” He turned so he could see them, which cast his face into half shadow. The artist emitted a strangled, frustrated sound. “You may approach the dais.”
Karigan had no choice but to bow to Timas, no matter how it rankled her, so she made it the most elaborate bow she could, bordering on mockery. A smirk grew on Timas’ face.
“I’d heard you became a Greenie,” he said, his voice quiet. “Seems fitting to finally see you bow to me.”
Karigan ignored the remark. “I’ve a message from the king for the lord-governor.” Saying it that way she did not acknowledge Timas was the lord-governor.
“Barrett,” Timas said, “bring me the message.”
He stood no more than a yard from Karigan, but would not take the message directly from her, as though her mere proximity would sully him.
Barrett appeared amused that Karigan had to give him the message after all. Karigan kept her expression cool. Barrett broke the seal, but before he could read the message, Colonel Birch stood with unexpected suddenness and swiped it from his hands.
Barrett scowled.
Birch scanned the message. “An invitation,” he said, “to a betrothal feast.” He handed it over to Timas and returned to his work as though the invitation was of no consequence.
Timas gave it a cursory glance and dropped it on the seat of the throne. “Betrothal feast, eh? We’ll see, we’ll see.”
Colonel Birch looked sharply at Timas. A warning? Karigan couldn’t tell. The dynamics in the room were strange, very unsettling. It occurred to her to wonder, in fact, who was actually in charge here.
“I’ll write a response later,” Timas said, and he took up his pose by the throne chair again. “I’ll have it delivered to your lodging. Dismissed.”
Dismissed? That was it? She was astonished, but before anyone could say another word, Karigan gave a shallow bow and swept out of the room, not waiting for Barrett to guide them. She and Fergal were hardly two steps through the door when she heard Timas and Barrett break out in laughter, no doubt at her. She couldn’t worry about it. In the scheme of the world, their opinion of her mattered little—she had more important things to concern herself with. It was clear Timas and Barrett were still stuck in childhood. And Timas’ getup! She found herself laughing as she strode down the corridor, Fergal giving her a sideways glance.
Outside the keep, Karigan and Fergal were directed to the stable to collect their horses. With each step across the courtyard, Karigan was increasingly glad to be done with the business and would be even happier to be on the road to Sacor City come morning. Once Timas’ response was delivered to them at The Fountain, they’d be free of all things Mirwell.
In the stable there were only a few horses besides Condor and Sunny. One, a bay mare, turned agitated circles in her box stall. Condor bobbed his head and whickered, as if picking up on the mare’s distress.
Someone, Karigan thought, ought to drop Barrett out of a tower window. The receiving room turned to silence except for the artist’s brush swishing across the canvas. The colonel looked up. He was a hard man with those features—they appeared chiseled from ice. Unlike Timas, his scarlet uniform bore little decoration aside from his insignia, and his sword and sheath were not ornate but serviceable looking. This colonel was no fop but a genuine warrior.
“My Lord Barrett,” the colonel said in a deceptively mild voice, “that is not how we speak of the king’s messengers.”
“With this one it is,” Barrett said. “Besides, you can’t tell me what to do, Birch. I’m lord-steward, if you remember, and you answer to me.”
The colonel’s mouth became a thin line, and it was difficult to read what went on in his mind, but Karigan knew Barrett was making a mistake by speaking to him in such a manner. The colonel did not look like one to tolerate fools, no matter their title and status.
“Barrett.” It was Timas. The Noble One spoke, but did not alter his pose.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Shut up. Birch answers to me.”
“But—”
“Would you like me to order Colonel Birch to shut you up?”
Barrett clenched and unclenched his hands, but he obeyed and said nothing. The colonel’s mouth curved into a cold smile.
“Leastways,” Timas continued, “we do not speak of the king’s messengers in that manner while they are present.”
Barrett sniggered.
Karigan felt Fergal stiffen beside her. Back at the inn she’d lectured him about not drawing weapons in the presence of nobles; weapons were only a last recourse when one’s life was in danger. Insults did not count. She’d made sure he knew she appreciated his gesture of standing up for her yesterday, and in fact she’d been genuinely touched, but she needed him to understand that drawing a weapon in the face of mere words was not an option.
Barrett really could have imprisoned Fergal, and in prison he would have sat till she could obtain clemency from the king, which would have involved the journey all the way to Sacor City and back. Fergal, in the meantime, would be at the mercy of the Mirwellians. He had apologized and promised he wouldn’t draw steel on Barrett unless he had to kill him. Fergal had looked as though he hoped an opportunity would present itself.
“You must excuse my steward,” Timas said. “He is newly come to his position and has yet to learn discretion in public.” He turned so he could see them, which cast his face into half shadow. The artist emitted a strangled, frustrated sound. “You may approach the dais.”
Karigan had no choice but to bow to Timas, no matter how it rankled her, so she made it the most elaborate bow she could, bordering on mockery. A smirk grew on Timas’ face.
“I’d heard you became a Greenie,” he said, his voice quiet. “Seems fitting to finally see you bow to me.”
Karigan ignored the remark. “I’ve a message from the king for the lord-governor.” Saying it that way she did not acknowledge Timas was the lord-governor.
“Barrett,” Timas said, “bring me the message.”
He stood no more than a yard from Karigan, but would not take the message directly from her, as though her mere proximity would sully him.
Barrett appeared amused that Karigan had to give him the message after all. Karigan kept her expression cool. Barrett broke the seal, but before he could read the message, Colonel Birch stood with unexpected suddenness and swiped it from his hands.
Barrett scowled.
Birch scanned the message. “An invitation,” he said, “to a betrothal feast.” He handed it over to Timas and returned to his work as though the invitation was of no consequence.
Timas gave it a cursory glance and dropped it on the seat of the throne. “Betrothal feast, eh? We’ll see, we’ll see.”
Colonel Birch looked sharply at Timas. A warning? Karigan couldn’t tell. The dynamics in the room were strange, very unsettling. It occurred to her to wonder, in fact, who was actually in charge here.
“I’ll write a response later,” Timas said, and he took up his pose by the throne chair again. “I’ll have it delivered to your lodging. Dismissed.”
Dismissed? That was it? She was astonished, but before anyone could say another word, Karigan gave a shallow bow and swept out of the room, not waiting for Barrett to guide them. She and Fergal were hardly two steps through the door when she heard Timas and Barrett break out in laughter, no doubt at her. She couldn’t worry about it. In the scheme of the world, their opinion of her mattered little—she had more important things to concern herself with. It was clear Timas and Barrett were still stuck in childhood. And Timas’ getup! She found herself laughing as she strode down the corridor, Fergal giving her a sideways glance.
Outside the keep, Karigan and Fergal were directed to the stable to collect their horses. With each step across the courtyard, Karigan was increasingly glad to be done with the business and would be even happier to be on the road to Sacor City come morning. Once Timas’ response was delivered to them at The Fountain, they’d be free of all things Mirwell.
In the stable there were only a few horses besides Condor and Sunny. One, a bay mare, turned agitated circles in her box stall. Condor bobbed his head and whickered, as if picking up on the mare’s distress.
