The High King's Tomb
Page 35
The man sitting with Fergal, who was quite drunk if his blurry eyes and red nose were any indication, elbowed Fergal. “Hooz this un, young Ferg’l? Sweet she is.” And he sniggered.
“Um…” was all Fergal said.
“Rooms?” Karigan demanded.
“Upstairs,” he said, pointing vaguely behind him.
“I know they’re upstairs. The only rooms here are upstairs.”
The sullen look crept back into Fergal’s face.
“What’s wrong with you? I told you to meet me at the stables.” The drunkard sniggered again and she glared at him. “To tend the horses.”
Fergal shrugged. “I was thirsty is all.”
“Horses first,” she said. “Horses always first.” His indifference grated on her. Why had he been called to be a Rider when he held so little regard for his office?
The drunkard hiccupped. “Whassa matter, honey, this li’l boy not man enough for ya?” He smiled and staggered to his feet, opening his arms wide. “I can show ya what a real man’s like.”
Karigan ignored him. “Fergal, grab your bags and come upstairs.”
When he just sat there glowering into his ale, she said, “Now.” When this failed to produce results, she grabbed his collar and hauled him out of his chair.
“Let go!” His voice held a whiney tone to it.
The merchants were laughing at him. Flushing, Fergal straightened his shortcoat and grabbed his saddlebags.
“Ya need a man, not this runt,” the drunkard proclaimed.
“Shut up, you stupid ass,” Fergal muttered.
“Leave it,” Karigan said. “There’s no use in—”
“Whad ya say?” the drunkard demanded, grabbing Fergal’s elbow. “Whad ya call me?”
“Stupid ass, or are you deaf, too?”
“Fergal!” Karigan said in dismay. Some drunks were harmless, and some weren’t. She didn’t think this man was the former.
“I’ll teach ya to be more polite, boy.” Unsteady on his feet, the drunk rolled up his sleeves and drew both hands into fists. “Come in here with yer fancy uniform an’ all, thinkin’ yer better than anyone.”
“Fergal,” Karigan said in low warning, “come on.”
“Li’l runt,” the drunk said.
Fergal’s expression darkened and his body went rigid.
“Oh no,” Karigan murmured. She went to grab him, but he threw his saddlebags down and launched himself on the drunk. Both went crashing to the floor. Innkeeper Miles rushed in at the clamor, and both he and Karigan stepped in to pull the combatants apart. Karigan hauled on Fergal’s shortcoat, and he rose still swinging, his nose bloody.
Miles pushed the drunk away, speaking placatingly to him.
“I’ll kill you!” Fergal cried.
“Try it, runt!”
Fergal surged in Karigan’s grip, and when she shook him, he turned on her, swinging.
THE KNACKER’S BOY
Karigan sat on the edge of the bed and dabbed the wet cloth at the bulging welt on her temple and winced. Fergal had slugged her hard and her whole head throbbed. When she pulled the cloth away, there was a spot of blood on it. Fergal sat in a chair opposite her, staring morosely at his knees. His nosebleed had cleared up quickly, and though his nose would be puffy and red for a couple days, it didn’t look broken. He was lucky.
“Would you care to explain yourself?” Karigan’s voice sounded tired even to herself.
“No.”
“That was an order, Rider. Not really a question.”
Fergal glanced at her and quickly averted his gaze. “He—he made me mad.”
Karigan waited for more, but Fergal offered nothing. “That’s it?”
He nodded.
Karigan sighed and started to stand, but it increased the throbbing in her head, so she stayed her seat. “You do realize we’re lucky that Innkeeper Miles hasn’t cast us out tonight, don’t you?”
Fergal nodded.
“Look, I don’t understand what is going on with you, but you are a king’s messenger now. When you wear this uniform, you are acting on his behalf, you are his voice. Do you think you represented the king well tonight?”
Fergal shook his head.
“There were some merchants who viewed this whole spectacle, just a few of them, but merchants travel and they gossip. I should know.” She had been the brunt of such gossip herself. People still pointed her out as the girl who rode her horse naked all the way to Darden—never mind she had been wearing a nightgown at the time. “The story of a Green Rider attacking a drunkard will undoubtedly get passed around, and the story will change and grow. Who knows what they’ll say? In any case, it will not reflect well on other Riders or the king. At this point I don’t care if you’d have been beaten senseless, except that you were in an official capacity as a Green Rider.”
Fergal’s shoulders slumped.
“Furthermore,” Karigan continued, feeling supremely old after delivering so many lectures in one day, “you failed to return to the stable to assist with your horse. I’m not sure what I have to do to drive it into your head that your horse is your first priority.”
“She’s just meat.”
“What?” Karigan wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. Maybe he had rattled her brain when he hit her.
“Meat.”
“Meat?”
“Um…” was all Fergal said.
“Rooms?” Karigan demanded.
“Upstairs,” he said, pointing vaguely behind him.
“I know they’re upstairs. The only rooms here are upstairs.”
The sullen look crept back into Fergal’s face.
“What’s wrong with you? I told you to meet me at the stables.” The drunkard sniggered again and she glared at him. “To tend the horses.”
Fergal shrugged. “I was thirsty is all.”
“Horses first,” she said. “Horses always first.” His indifference grated on her. Why had he been called to be a Rider when he held so little regard for his office?
The drunkard hiccupped. “Whassa matter, honey, this li’l boy not man enough for ya?” He smiled and staggered to his feet, opening his arms wide. “I can show ya what a real man’s like.”
Karigan ignored him. “Fergal, grab your bags and come upstairs.”
When he just sat there glowering into his ale, she said, “Now.” When this failed to produce results, she grabbed his collar and hauled him out of his chair.
“Let go!” His voice held a whiney tone to it.
The merchants were laughing at him. Flushing, Fergal straightened his shortcoat and grabbed his saddlebags.
“Ya need a man, not this runt,” the drunkard proclaimed.
“Shut up, you stupid ass,” Fergal muttered.
“Leave it,” Karigan said. “There’s no use in—”
“Whad ya say?” the drunkard demanded, grabbing Fergal’s elbow. “Whad ya call me?”
“Stupid ass, or are you deaf, too?”
“Fergal!” Karigan said in dismay. Some drunks were harmless, and some weren’t. She didn’t think this man was the former.
“I’ll teach ya to be more polite, boy.” Unsteady on his feet, the drunk rolled up his sleeves and drew both hands into fists. “Come in here with yer fancy uniform an’ all, thinkin’ yer better than anyone.”
“Fergal,” Karigan said in low warning, “come on.”
“Li’l runt,” the drunk said.
Fergal’s expression darkened and his body went rigid.
“Oh no,” Karigan murmured. She went to grab him, but he threw his saddlebags down and launched himself on the drunk. Both went crashing to the floor. Innkeeper Miles rushed in at the clamor, and both he and Karigan stepped in to pull the combatants apart. Karigan hauled on Fergal’s shortcoat, and he rose still swinging, his nose bloody.
Miles pushed the drunk away, speaking placatingly to him.
“I’ll kill you!” Fergal cried.
“Try it, runt!”
Fergal surged in Karigan’s grip, and when she shook him, he turned on her, swinging.
THE KNACKER’S BOY
Karigan sat on the edge of the bed and dabbed the wet cloth at the bulging welt on her temple and winced. Fergal had slugged her hard and her whole head throbbed. When she pulled the cloth away, there was a spot of blood on it. Fergal sat in a chair opposite her, staring morosely at his knees. His nosebleed had cleared up quickly, and though his nose would be puffy and red for a couple days, it didn’t look broken. He was lucky.
“Would you care to explain yourself?” Karigan’s voice sounded tired even to herself.
“No.”
“That was an order, Rider. Not really a question.”
Fergal glanced at her and quickly averted his gaze. “He—he made me mad.”
Karigan waited for more, but Fergal offered nothing. “That’s it?”
He nodded.
Karigan sighed and started to stand, but it increased the throbbing in her head, so she stayed her seat. “You do realize we’re lucky that Innkeeper Miles hasn’t cast us out tonight, don’t you?”
Fergal nodded.
“Look, I don’t understand what is going on with you, but you are a king’s messenger now. When you wear this uniform, you are acting on his behalf, you are his voice. Do you think you represented the king well tonight?”
Fergal shook his head.
“There were some merchants who viewed this whole spectacle, just a few of them, but merchants travel and they gossip. I should know.” She had been the brunt of such gossip herself. People still pointed her out as the girl who rode her horse naked all the way to Darden—never mind she had been wearing a nightgown at the time. “The story of a Green Rider attacking a drunkard will undoubtedly get passed around, and the story will change and grow. Who knows what they’ll say? In any case, it will not reflect well on other Riders or the king. At this point I don’t care if you’d have been beaten senseless, except that you were in an official capacity as a Green Rider.”
Fergal’s shoulders slumped.
“Furthermore,” Karigan continued, feeling supremely old after delivering so many lectures in one day, “you failed to return to the stable to assist with your horse. I’m not sure what I have to do to drive it into your head that your horse is your first priority.”
“She’s just meat.”
“What?” Karigan wasn’t sure she had heard him correctly. Maybe he had rattled her brain when he hit her.
“Meat.”
“Meat?”
