“Jewels, elven jewels, from Aristagon itself,” called Hugh the Hand, moving from campfire to campfire.
“You there! Over here!” cried a boisterous voice.
Hugh obeyed, stepped into the firelight.
The soldiers, wine cups in hand, left off their bragging and gathered around the peddler.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Certainly, most honored sirs,” said Hugh with a flourishing bow, “Boy, show them.”
The peddler’s son stepped into the firelight, exhibiting a large tray he held in his hands. The child’s face was grimy with dirt and partially obscured by an overlarge hood that hung down over his forehead. The soldiers didn’t so much as glance at the boy; what interest did they have in a peddler’s son?
Their gaze was fixed on the brilliant, glittering baubles.
The dog sat down, scratched and yawned and looked hungrily at a string of sizzling sausages, roasting over a fire.
Hugh played his role well; he’d acted this part before, and he haggled over prices with an ardor and skill that would have made him a fortune had he been a true dealer. As he argued, his gaze darted about the camp, judging his distance from the royal tent, deciding where he would move next. Hugh closed the deal, dispensed the jewels, pocketed the barls, was loud in his laments that he’d been outbargained.
“Come along, my son,” he said grumpily, laying a hand on Bane’s shoulder. The child snapped the box shut and obediently traipsed after. The dog, after one final, wistful glance at the sausages, followed.
The royal tent stood in the center of the camp, in the middle of a large open area. A wide swath of coralite separated it from the tents of the King’s Own. The royal tent was large, square-shaped, with a canopy extending out in front. Four guards were posted round the tent itself—one at each corner. Two guards, under the command of a sergeant, stood at the front entrance. And, as luck would have it, the captain of the guard was there also, discussing the day’s events with the sergeant in a low voice.
“Come here, boy. Let me see what we’ve left,” Hugh said gruffly for the benefit of any who might have been listening. He chose a shadowed spot, outside of the direct light of any of the camp fires, directly opposite the royal tent’s entrance.
Bane opened the box. Hugh bent over it, muttering to himself. He looked intently at Bane, at the child’s face that was a white glimmer in the light of the campfires. Hugh searched for any sign of weakness, fear, nervousness. The assassin might, he realized, with a sudden shock, have been looking in a mirror.
The boy’s blue eyes were cold, hard, bright with purpose, empty of expression and feeling, though he was about to witness the brutal murder of two people who had been mother and father to him for ten years. Raising his gaze to Hugh’s, the child’s sweet lips curved, smiled.
“What do we do now?” he asked, in a breathless whisper of excitement. It took Hugh a moment to find the words to answer. The feather amulet hanging around the boy’s neck was all that prevented the assassin from carrying out the contract he’d made so long ago. For Iridal’s sake, her son would live.
“Is the king in the tent?”
“Anne and Stephen are both in there. I know. The royal bodyguard wouldn’t be posted outside if the king and queen weren’t inside. The bodyguard always goes where the king goes.”
“Look at the guards standing in front of the royal tent,” said Hugh harshly.
“Do you know any of them?”
Bane’s gaze shifted, eyes narrowed. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I know that one man—the captain. I think I know the sergeant, too.”
“Would either of them know you?”
“Oh, yes. Both were in and out of the palace a lot. The captain made me a toy spear once.”
Hugh felt the lightness of things, experienced the exhilarating warmth and strange calmness that sometimes came over him when he knew with absolute certainty that fate was working with him, that nothing could go wrong, not now.
Not ever.
“Good,” he said. “Perfect. Hold still.”
Taking the child’s head in his hand, Hugh tilted the face to the light and began to scrub off the dirt and grime he’d smeared over it as a disguise. Hugh wasn’t gentle; there wasn’t time. Bane winced, but kept quiet. Work complete, Hugh studied the face—the cheeks pink with the rubbing and excitement, the golden curls falling in a rumpled mass over the forehead.
“Now they should know you.” Hugh grunted. “You remember what you’re supposed to say, what you’re supposed to do.”
“Of course! We’ve been over it twenty times already. Just you do your part,” Bane added, with a cold and hostile stare, “and I’ll do mine.”
“Oh, I’ll do my part, Your Highness,” Hugh the Hand said softly. “Let’s get going, before that captain of yours decides to leave.”
He started forward and almost fell over the dog, who had taken advantage of the lull in the action to flop down and rest. The animal leapt back with a muffled yelp. Hugh had stepped on its paw.
“Drat the beast! Shut up!” Hugh told it, glowering. “Tell the damn dog to stay here.”
“I won’t,” cried Bane petulantly, catching hold of the ruff around the dog’s neck and hugging it. The dog was exhibiting its hurt paw with a woeful air.
“He’s mine now. He’ll protect me, if I need him. You never know. Something might happen to you, and then I’d be all alone.”
Hugh eyed the boy. Bane stared back.
It wasn’t worth the argument.
“Come on then,” the Hand said, and they started for the royal tent. Hurt forgotten, the dog trotted along behind.
Inside the tent, Stephen and Anne were taking advantage of the few moments of privacy permitted them on this journey, as they both prepared for a well-earned night’s rest. They had just returned from dining with Prince Rees’ahn in the elven camp.
“A remarkable man, Rees’ahn,” said Stephen, storting to remove the armor he’d worn for both security and ceremony.
He raised his arms, permitting his wife to unfasten the leather straps that held on the breastplate. Ordinarily, in a military encampment, the king’s manservant would have performed the task, but all attendants had been dismissed this night, as they were every night when Stephen and Anne traveled together.
Rumor had it that the servants were dismissed so that the king and queen could battle in private. On more than one occasion, Anne had stormed out of the tent, and many nights, Stephen had done the same. All for show, a show that was about to end. Any disgruntled barons hoping for discord on this night would be sadly disappointed.
Anne unfastened the buckles and untied the ties with expert swiftness, helped Stephen ease the heavy breastplate from his chest and back. The queen came from a clan that had won its fortunes by beating its rivals into submission. She had ridden on her share of campaigns, spent many nights in tents not nearly as fine or comfortable as this one. That had been in her youth, however, before her marriage. She was enjoying this outing immensely, the only drawback being the fact that she’d had to leave her precious baby behind, under the care of the nurse.
“You’re right about Rees’ahn, my dear. Not many men-human or elven—would have fought on-against the odds he faced,” said Anne. She stood with his night robes in her arms, waiting for him to complete his undressing. “Hunted like an animal, half starving, friends turning traitor, his own father sending assassins to murder him. Look, my dear, here’s a link broken. You must have it mended.”
Stephen lifted the chain mail from his shoulders, tossed it carelessly into a corner of the tent. Turning, he accepted her assistance in dressing for the night (it was not true, again as rumor had it, that the king slept in his armor!). Then he took his wife in his arms.