Achan nodded. He stepped back from the pen, then spun around and stormed toward the manor, loosening his jerkin as he went. The kitchens? By Lord Nathak’s direct order? Why couldn’t he allow him to serve Sir Gavin at least for one day? Lord Nathak had plenty of servants. Poril had plenty of help.
Achan stalked to the keep and up to Sir Gavin’s bedchamber. The room was empty. Wils was probably off dressing some other poor sap. Achan jerked the shield over his head and let it clatter to the floor. He fought with his clothes until he got them all off, pulling out a tuft of hair along with the chain shirt. After folding them as neatly as his temper would allow, he left them, the shield, and Eagan’s Elk lying atop Sir Gavin’s bed.
He stared at the beautiful sword and scabbard. For a morning he’d been a real squire. He sighed. No reason to keep the blade now, though. It looked like Lord Nathak was denying him his knightly apprenticeship. Besides, the sword was much too good for cutting vegetables.
He washed his wounds and dug around until he found some strips of cloth to bind them. At least he would not die from infection. He fought two matches today, met a group of nobles who could have had him arrested, and came face to face with Lord Nathak. He should be thankful to be alive.
Achan spent the rest of the day in the kitchens running errands for frantic Poril. As if the gods didn’t feel this day was humiliating enough, Poril told Achan he was to serve at the feast. Poril made Achan wear a fancy green servant’s uniform. It made him look like a jester.
Any other day Achan would have been thrilled for such an opportunity. But he’d been an equal with squires today, even insulted a noblewoman. To serve them now…well…he’d rather not.
Poril gave him instructions in the kitchen. “Yer not teh speak unless yer spoken to. Pages and squires will serve food to their lords, so yeh’ll not be causing any trouble there. Once the squires sit, yeh’ll serve them.”
Fabulous! Perhaps Achan could offer up some ale or choice wine to Reggio or Bran or Shung or Silvo. He scowled at the floor.
Achan took his place in the serving room off the entrance to the great hall. Dozens of identically dressed servants crowded the tables and filled platters with food. No one had recognized Achan yet. He did see Reggio arguing with Poril about the best cut of lamb for Sir Jabari. Thankfully Poril dealt with the pompous runt himself. Maybe all would be well. Maybe no one would recognize him at all.
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.