“Where is the warden? Roust him out, before I put a torch to this place and wake him myself!” he roared.
An older boy ran upstairs to fetch Egrin. On the steps, guardsmen steeped in beer stirred sluggishly, peering at the new day with bloodshot eyes.
“Why am I standing here in horse dung, waiting?” Morthur bellowed after several minutes. “Bring me the warden of the Household Guard!”
Egrin came down looking rumpled and cross. He drew himself up in front of Morthur and unsheathed his dagger blade in salute.
“My lord,” he said hoarsely. “My apologies for the delay.”
Morthur looked down scornfully from the height of his horse’s back. “You sleep off yet another drunken carouse while I, a cousin of the emperor, am left waiting in the stables! It’s intolerable, warden!”
“Yes, my lord. What is it you require?”
“The Lord Marshal tells me you captured a Pakin noble yesterday, one Vakka Zan to be exact.” Egrin confirmed it, and Morthur added, “He is to be judged this morning. Lord Odovar would see him shortened by a head.”
Egrin started visibly. “I thought the Lord Marshal intended to hold the Pakin as a hostage, or for ransom?”
Morthur sneered. “So thought I, warden. Vakka Zan is more nobly born than anyone hereabouts, save myself. Such blood should not be shed lightly, but the Lord Marshal has made his will plain.” He moved to go, then turned back to add, “Oh, and Lord Vakka’s sword. Fetch it to Lord Odovar at once.”
Egrin glanced at Tol as he said, “Sword, my lord? It’s mine as a trophy of single combat.”
“I merely convey the High Marshal’s commands,” Morthur said irritably. “I, with the blood of emperors in my veins, reduced to carrying messages…” His hands tightened on the reins and his horse pranced under him. Egrin was forced to step back smartly to avoid its heavy hooves.
Morthur smiled thinly at the warden’s quick movements. With a shout, he rode off, trailed by his retinue. Egrin watched them go, scratching his chin through his gray-speckled beard.
“Bad business,” he said. “Bad business.”
Tol remained behind when the other boys dispersed to their tasks. He came to Egrin’s elbow. “I must give up the sword?” he said.
“Seems so, lad.” Egrin scratched some more. “Or maybe not. You will accompany me to the High House to see the marshal. You shall carry the sword.”
Feeling a mix of pride and apprehension, Tol asked, “Why me, sir?”
“To remind Lord Odovar not only what I owe you, but what he owes you as well.”
He slapped Tol sharply on the back. “Make haste! If we hurry, we can reach Lord Odovar before Lord Morthur does. He’s a lazy sort, and may visit two or three taverns before heading back to the High House.”
“Why must we arrive before Lord Morthur?”
Egrin’s eyes narrowed, but a hint of a smile revealed his good humor. “Showing a fool to be a fool is easy, but showing a fool to a fool may save a man’s life.”
Glowering over the half-timbered houses of Juramona, the High House was almost a second town in itself. The seat of the Lord Marshal perched atop the man-made hill built by a thousand prisoners of war and had its own stable, armory, larder, and great hall. It was in this last that Lord Odovar conducted the affairs of his domain, subject to the will of his over-lord and master, the emperor of Ergoth.
Tol arrived with Egrin, Manzo, and three other guardsmen. He rode behind the warden, Lord Vakka’s saber held tightly in his sweating hands. They ascended a steep ramp made of logs into the lowest courtyard, then dismounted to walk up the spiral ramp that encircled the mound. Every structure on the hill had a flat, sturdy roof, manned by gangs of spearmen. The spearmen wore simple pot helmets and painted leather cuirasses over quilted jerkins. They were not Riders of the Great Horde, but hired men. Horseless, their only purpose was to defend the High House, for which they were paid in salt, meat, and bread.
The second-to-topmost tier was the marshal’s hall. Egrin, Tol, and the guardsmen were held at the door until a lackey returned with Lord Odovar’s permission for them to enter. It was granted, and Egrin marched in boldly at the head of his men.
Odovar was seated in a tall chair on a carpeted timber platform higher than the rest of the floor. He’d washed away the filth and blood of the past several days and wore a finely woven crimson robe and sash. Leather bands, sewn with red and blue gems, encircled his forearms, and a heavy gold chain rested on his chest.
To Odovar’s left, on a lower bench, sat a handsome, well-fleshed woman. She was garbed in a white cloth that seemed to shine with its own light and, combined with her pale skin and light hair, gave her an otherworldly radiance. A large sapphire hung from a golden chain around her neck, and similar blue stones sparkled in her dangling earrings.
At the marshal’s right hand stood a thick-waisted, bald man. He wore a stiff linen robe with a red velvet stole draped around his neck. His hands, like his belly, were big and soft-looking. A tight smile never left his face as he watched Egrin’s group approach.
The walls of the great hall were plastered and whitewashed, making the round room seem even larger than it was. Fires flickered in standing brass braziers on each side of the marshal’s high chair, and heavy tapestries in bold, deep hues hung from the rafters behind the raised platform.
Egrin stopped abruptly, slapping his boot heels together and raising high his dagger. “My lord! I have come as you bid. How may I serve you?”
Odovar gave the pale woman’s hand a squeeze and kiss, then dropped it. His forehead was swathed in a linen bandage, almost obscuring one eye.
“Where is Morthur?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” Egrin replied. “He delivered your summons and departed. I came here straightaway.”
“In some swill shop, no doubt,” Odovar said, answering his own question, “or chasing a milkmaid around the dairy barns.” His lady simpered, and the bald man clucked his tongue disapprovingly.
“I see you brought the Pakin’s sword,” Odovar added. He held out his hand.
Tol was reluctant to relinquish the weapon. Egrin nudged him, and Tol approached the high chair with arms outstretched, the gilded saber balanced across his hands. Odovar rose and took the sword. He swept it back and forth through the air, admiring its weight and the flashing glints from its gold chasing.
“A masterful blade,” he said. “Made by the elf smith Exanthus, I’m told.” He took the hilt in both hands and brought the saber down in a powerful chop. “Should sever the traitor’s head with no trouble. What do you think, Lanza?”
He reversed his grip and offered the weapon to the bald man beside him. Lanza took it gingerly and scrutinized the fine filigree on the blade with a practiced eye.
“The hilt is typical Daltigoth, but the blade is Silvanesti work, right enough,” he said. “You could probably cleave the altar stone of Solin with such an edge.”
Odovar took the sword back. He seated himself again and leaned toward his lady, showing off the sword’s exquisite inlay to her.
“My lord, I would ask a boon of you,” Egrin said.
The marshal, only half listening, merely grunted. He chucked his lady’s chin gently with the sword hilt, and she giggled, fluttering long eyelashes at him.
Egrin forged on. “My lord, I ask you to spare the life of Vakka Zan.”
The whispered dalliance between Odovar and his lady died. The marshal turned his full attention to Egrin.
“What?” Odovar demanded. “Did you say spare the traitor?”
“Spare a noble hostage,” Egrin countered.
Odovar leaped to his feet, hand clenched around the sword hilt. “How dare you plead for that rogue’s life! You’ve gone soft on the Pakins, Egrin!” The marshal’s voice rose to a shout. “I will exterminate this traitor. There will be no peace until every Pakin has his head removed from his shoulders! Vakka Zan will die, and the emperor will know he has a strong hand in the Eastern Hundred!”