"Up to the Hall, then. Want every one of you up there 'case those sharding dragonriders doan know theys manners." The grin suggested that the man was aching to teach dragonriders manners.
"Yuss," Robinton said. He squared his shoulders, which was not easy after a day's crouching, and passed the underleader cautiously, as if expecting a kick on his way. But no kick came. A quick look back told him that the man was bending over his saddlebags, extracting his sword-belt.
Reaching the Hall, Robinton slowed to avoid stepping on the heels of Fax's two underleaders, who were escorting their Lord into the chamber with one of his ladies. The Warder was effusively bowing them in. Robinton slipped along the wall as if he had been in the wake of the latest arrivals and took up a position halfway between the guards already in place. Neither took note of him, their attention focused on the dragonriders seated at one of the trestle tables set up perpendicular to the raised dais which held the head table. With relief, Robinton spotted C'gan's silvery head and then looked along to spot the young rider, F'nor. There was no mistaking his lineage as F'lon's son: it was there in the cocked head and the slight smile. F'nor was watching his half-brother at the head table, talking to one of Fax's ladies, seated beside him. Lady Gemma occupied the seat on the other side. F'lar didn't seem all that happy in such company. Just then a crawler dropped from the ceiling on to the table, and Lady Gemma noticeably winced.
Fax went stamping up the steps to the head table. He pulled back his chair roughly, slamming it into the Lady Gemma's before he seated himself. Then he pulled the chair to the table with a force that threatened to rock the none-too-stable trestle-top from its supporting legs. Scowling, he inspected his goblet and plate.
"A roast, my Lord Fax, and fresh bread, Lord Fax, and such fruits and roots as are left." The Warder approached the head table, clearly apprehensive.
"Left? Left? You said there was nothing harvested here."
The Warder's eyes bulged and he gulped. "Nothing to be sent on," he stammered. "Nothing good enough to be sent on. Nothing. Had I but known of your arrival, I could have sent to Crom--"
"Sent to Crom?" roared Fax, slamming the plate he was inspecting on to the table so forcefully that the rim bent under his hands. The Warder winced again.
"For decent foodstuffs, my Lord," he quavered.
Robinton felt a sudden ripple, like an odd push at his mind.
"The day one of my Holds cannot support itself or the visit of its rightful overlord, I shall renounce it."
The Lady Gemma gasped, and Robinton wondered if she had felt the same remarkable ripple he did. As if confirming that, the dragons roared. And Robinton felt the surge of... something.
F'lar felt it too, the MasterHarper thought, for he sought his half-brother's eyes and saw F'nor's almost imperceptible nod ... and those of the other wingriders.
"What's wrong, Dragonman?" snapped Fax.
Robinton admired the way in which F'lar affected no concern, stretching his long legs and assuming an indolent posture in the heavy chair
"Wrong?" He had a voice like F'lon's, a good baritone with flexible intonations. Robinton wondered if the man could sing.
"The dragons!" Fax said.
"Oh, nothing. They often roar... at the sunset, at a flock of passing wherries, at mealtimes." F'lar smiled amiably at Fax. His tablemate, however, was not so sanguine and gave a squeak.
"Mealtimes? Have they not been fed?"
"Oh, yes, five days ago."
"Oh. Five... days ago? And are they hungry... now?" Her voice trailed into a whisper of fear, and her eyes grew round.
"In a few days," F'lar assured her. Robinton watched him scan the Hall with a good appearance of detached amusement. "You mount a guard?" he asked Fax casually.
"Double at Ruatha Hold," Fax replied in a right, hard voice.
"Here?" F'lar all but laughed, gesturing around the sadly unkempt chamber.
"Here!" Fax changed the subject with a roar. "Food!"
Five drudges staggered in under the weight of the roast herd-beast.
The aroma that reached Robinton's nostrils had not improved in the short while since he had left the kitchen courtyard.
The odour of singed bone was most prevalent. And there was the Warder, sharpening his tools for carving.
Robinton was not the only one to see Lady Gemma catch her breath, her hands curling tightly around the armrests.
The drudges returned with wooden trays of bread; burned crusts had been scraped and cut from the loaves. As other trays were borne in by the drudges and passed before Lady Gemma, Robinton could see her expression turning to unmistakable nausea. Then he saw her convulsive clutch at the armrest and realized that the food was not the principal problem. He saw F'lar lean towards her to say something, but she stopped him with an imperceptible shake of her head, closing her eyes and trying to mask the shudder that ran down her body.
The poor woman looked to be going into labour, Robinton thought.
The Warder, with shaking hands, was now presenting Fax with a plate of the sliced meats ... the more edible-looking portions.
"You call this food? You call this food?" Fax bellowed. More crawlers were shaken from their webs as the sound of his voice shattered fragile strands. "Slop. Slop." And he threw the plate at the Warder.
"It's all we had on such short notice," the Warder squealed, bloody juices streaking down his cheeks. Fax threw his goblet at him, and the wine went streaming down the man's chest. The steaming dish of roots followed; the Warder yelped in pain as the hot liquid splashed over him.
"My Lord, my Lord, had I but known!"
Robinton felt a repeat of the powerful ripple, and thought it was triumphant.
"Obviously, Ruatha cannot support the visit of its Lord." F'lar's voice rang out. "You must renounce it."
Robinton stared at the dragonrider. Everyone else did, too. The MasterHarper also caught the sudden blinking of F'lar's eyes, as if the bronze rider had astonished himself as well. But F'lar straightened his shoulders and regarded Fax in the silence that fell over the Hall, broken only by the splat of crawlers and the drip of the root liquid from the Warder's shoulders to the rushes on the floor. The grating of Fax's boot heel was clearly audible as he swung slowly around to face the bronze rider. From his vantage point, Robinton could see F'nor rise with hand on dagger hilt. It was all he could do not to gesture for F'nor to stay seated, to take his hand off the knife.
"I did not hear you correctly?" Fax asked. His voice was expressionless, and Robinton was glad that the man's back was to him.
"You did mention, my Lord," F'lar drawled with a good command of himself, Robinton noted with almost paternal pride, "that if any of your Holds could not support itself and the visit of its rightful overlord, you would renounce it."
Then, with admirable self-possession, the dragonrider – his eyes still on Fax – speared some vegetables from a serving dish and began to eat. F'nor, still on his feet, was glancing around the Hall as if he thought someone else had spoken, not F'lar. That was when Robinton realized that those odd ripples of power had not emanated from the dragonriders, or the dragons. But where had they come from?
Fax and F'lar stood, their gazes locked. Suddenly a groan escaped Lady Gemma. Fax glanced at her in irritation, his fist clenched and half-raised to strike her. But the contraction that rippled across her swollen belly was as obvious as her pain.
Fax began to laugh. He threw back his head, showing big stained teeth, and roared.
"Aye, renounce it in favour of her issue, if it is male ... and lives," he crowed.
"Heard and witnessed!" F'lar snapped, jumping to his feet and pointing to his riders. They were on their feet in an instant.
"Heard and witnessed!" they responded in the traditional manner.