Master Ricks plowed on, as if his very life hinged on Achan taking his son. "He's a bright lad, honest to a fault and quick. He'd make a good page or valet. Learns fast, he does."
Sir Caleb turned to Achan. What do you say, Your Majesty?
I cannot take this man's son. I'll not keep slaves.
He doesn't offer you a slave but an employee. He sacrifices his son to give the boy a bright future in the king's household.
Little Matthias blinked, his eyes wide and fearful.
You think we should take him with us?
Only if you'll be willing to let the lad learn to dress you.
Achan set his jaw. Perhaps he can become my advisor when I demote you to jester.
Perhaps. "Deliver the boy to Carmine within the month and we'll give him a position in His Majesty's household."
Master Ricks' eyes filled with tears. "Oh, thank you, Your Highness, thank you kindly!"
Achan watched the small boy walk away with Master Ricks as the valet announced, "Master Polk Mafellen."
A tanned man with cropped blond hair and round brown eyes knelt before Achan, reminding him of a baby chick. "I squired for the false prince 'til he fired me for winning a match with swords. I'm a strong swordsman, I can't help it, so you're getting a good man in me, Your Highness."
Achan could relate to Esek's cruelty, but Polk's pride ruffled him. "I thank you, Polk, and welcome your service."
Two familiar faces from IceIsland-Master Matar Bazmark and Master Brien Gebfly-pledged Achan their service.
Then Lord Livna's voice pulled his attention away. "The servants will take the personal gifts to your chambers, Your Highness. Let's have some dancing!"
Vrell watched from the end of the lowest table, with a critical eye, thankful this was formal, proper dancing, not that brazen groping Kurtz had forced her to witness in the tavern. Kurtz stood across the room, hovering over poor Julianna Wenk. He was supposed to be watching the entrance with Vrell, not sniffing around for a dance partner. He should take care. Julianna's father did not take kindly to men who spoke to his daughters without his permission.
Achan had danced with the highest ranking, married ladies first, who gave him opportunity to learn the steps before he had to dance with Grandmother Merris, a conniving old woman whom Vrell had never been fond of, despite their blood relationship. Now, the young women formed a line to bask in their moment of attention from the Crown Prince. Vrell recognized many of the commoners: Meneya, Julianna and Moriah, Christola, and Bettly.
But now Achan danced with Lady Lathia, Uncle Chantry's youngest girl of seventeen. Vrell trusted Cousin Lathia with Achan as much as she had trusted Beska, the serving wench.
Vrell forced her gaze away from Cousin Lathia to where her aunt and uncle danced. She had never been close to her uncle. Lord Livna was a man's man with little time for female relatives, Tara's unfortunate union a prime example. But Vrell adored Aunt Revada. She longed to confide the truth to her, and to ask about Tara's wedding, to get it from her aunt how such a thing had come to pass. Aunt Revada could not have given up Tara easily, Vrell knew that much.
She sighed. How strange to be in Lytton Hall and not be dancing, for there was little else to do in this place. She had visited countless times throughout her childhood, Tara and Lathia dragging her around by the arm to point out which new soldier they thought was most handsome.
Those days were gone to the Veil now.
*
For Achan, the dancing proved more difficult than in Berland. Everyone moved together in coordinated steps, exposing every slow and disoriented move Achan made. He walked about, pranced in circles, and at one point, had to grab the waist of his partner, lift her up, turn, and set her down on his other side.
He stumbled about with several forgiving ladies. Lady Revada. Lady Viola. Both safely married. Then came the unmarried girls, who showered him with flattery and smiles. He favored the shorter ones, for towering over them made him feel older, and the fact that he could lift them like feathers made him feel strong. Achan kept his eyes peeled for Sir Caleb, hoping he didn't accidentally cross the fine line between being cordial and giving false hope.
Finally the food came. Achan took his seat. The servants filed onto the dais holding jugs of drink and platters of rich-smelling food. Achan's stomach growled. He ate heartily, chatting with Lord Livna.
A young serving boy refilled Achan's plate when he ate all his fish and fricasses, then took his goblet away to refresh it.
Achan scanned the hall. He couldn't see Sparrow, but found the boy's mind easily. Are you certain you don't want that job? Clearing my dishes.
Quite.
Achan didn't want to admit how much it bothered him that Sparrow had deserted him. But it's mostly standing around.
Today. But tomorrow I might have to fight a battle to the death with daggers. I am sorry, Your Highness, but it is not for me.
Sir Eagan crouched behind Sir Caleb's chair. "It does not look good for the prince's servant to be sneaking gulps of wine when he is supposed to be filling his cup."
Achan looked over Sir Eagan's shoulder to see his serving boy crouched in the corner of the dais, gulping from his goblet.
Achan rolled his eyes. What in flames was the lad thinking? Achan would have been flogged for such a thing.
"Unbelievable!" Sir Caleb said. "Send him away, Eagan. I'll serve the prince myself."
"Patience, Caleb. I'll talk to him." Sir Eagan walked away.
Sir Caleb sighed. "Carmine, Your Majesty. I am certain we can find you a worthy page and squire in-"
Lady Revada cried out, "Oh! The boy! Help him!"
Lord Livna's wife gaped at a spot behind Achan with a panicked expression. He whipped his head around to see his serving boy lying on the floor, eyes glazed, Sir Eagan crouching at his side.
Achan dove from his chair and seized the boy's arm. "Boy! What's wrong?"
The boy's eyes flickered to Achan's.
Sir Eagan asked a white-haired serving man. "Was it the wine?"
Achan stared up at the servant, who nodded, clearly horrified at the implication in Achan's expression.
"I–I…only poured…th-this." He held out a large clay jug.
Sir Eagan snatched it and smelled the opening. Frowning, he sniffed again and set it on the floor. He shot the servant a dark look. "Don't touch that." He scrambled on his hands and knees along the dais, just above the steps, and grabbed the goblet that had rolled against the wall.
Achan lifted the boy's head into his lap. Sparrow! My serving boy has fallen. What can I do? He's not moving.
Has he a heartbeat?
Achan lowered his cheek to the boy's lips. He's breathing.
What did he eat? Sparrow asked.
He drank my wine. Help him.
The boy's body trembled, then shook violently. With the exception of the people staring on the dais, chatter filled the rest of the hall, the other guests oblivious to what was happening on the floor behind the head table.
Achan clutched the boy's shaking head. Sparrow!
At last, Sparrow slid between two guests and knelt at Achan's side. He set a hand to the boy's pallid face and leaned forward to look in his eyes.
Sir Eagan, now standing at Achan's side, handed him the goblet. "Look."
Achan accepted the cup. A soggy clump of olive green leaves clung to the bottom curve, leaking a froth of watery white slime, like wet sugar. Achan's breathing slowed. Poison?