Craer was still trying to think of a dignified answer to that observation, with the delighted laughter of all the men in the room ringing in his ears and a scornful Tshamarra Talasorn giving him a hard stare, when Hawkril strode past, smoothly took hold of his ear, and swept him out the door.
"Finest shalarn," the cellarer told the towering armaragor eagerly, almost panting with fear. "Brought straight from far Sarinda."
"Man, 'tis green," the warrior growled, holding the bottle in one hand with surprising gentleness-considering the iron strength and increasing tightness of the grip he had on the cellarer's belt with the other.
The castle officer's legs dangled well clear of the ground, kicking slightly. He was busy deeply regretting his earlier swift rudeness-but how was he to know these two ruffians had the king's leave to raid the palace kitchens, let alone the royal winecellar!
"Ah, well, ah-ha-ha, so 'tis," he offered hastily, fervently wishing he'd donned his older, looser truss that morning, as the armaragor's grip made all his hidden underbelts-and their buckles-dig ever deeper into soft, private areas of his anatomy. "A very splendid emerald green, ah-ha, yes!"
"Deep green and aromatic, you say?" the armaragor asked skeptically, giving the wine another critical stare. "Well, then, you drink some, whilst I watch!"
He rammed the cellarer down into a chair and thumped the bottle down in front of him. Well behind the quivering official, the four guards summoned earlier by the Lord High Cellarer to scourge and then expel the two intruders chuckled openly.
They shall all boil in oil, screaming for mercy, the cellarer vowed silently, as he gulped eagerly. "Why, I couldn't! Friend warrior, this is some of the most expensi-"
"I'm not your friend," Hawkril growled, thrusting his face close to the red and quivering visage just beyond the bottle, "I'm an Overduke of Aglirta, and I'm giving you a command. Consider how quickly you'll obey-for your alacrity may have some bearing on two things: how much longer you're cellarer of Flowfoam, and the remaining length of your life."
"Hawk, I know he was extremely insulting, but let him live, hey? Empty yon bottle over his head, make him fetch a dozen different ones for each of us, and let's be gone from here," Craer muttered, from behind the hulking armaragor.
Hawkril swung around to give the procurer a surprised look. Craer was sitting at a kitchen table, looking at his bowl of soup as eagerly as if a friend had just drowned in it. "You feel as restless as I do?" he asked.
The procurer didn't look up, but he did nod. Emphatically.
Hawkril turned back to the cellarer. "Fetch those two dozen bottles-in a pair of carrybaskets, mind. If you do so swiftly, I won't have to come looking for you, will I?"
For the first time in his fife, the Lord High Cellarer of Flowfoam Castle set about obeying an order at a run.
Their stroll ended up where they'd both known it would, though neither had said a word in that regard: at the graves of Sarasper and Brightpennant. Several empty bottles had been discarded in their wake, and the huge haunch of boar in Hawkril's hand had been literally whittled down-with two very sharp belt-knives-to a short end of meat around a long, bare bone.
"So, have you decided what it is that overdukes do yet, besides bully servants?" the shorter stroller asked his taller companion.
"Chase wenches and steal things, if they're also procurers," came the dry reply, and then, in a different voice, "No. Nor have I looked ahead, to beyond battles against Serpents and nobles. I've never thought any of us will five to see time enough to wonder. If ever we drive down the Snake-lovers, and somehow hammer loyalty into the nobles, 'twill be our turn to do the same to the merchants of Sirlptar next."
Craer opened another bottle, poured a goodly amount on one grave and then the other, saluted the fallen ones quietly by name, and then asked, "So what's been riding you, these last few days? Between fights to the death and a certain Lady of Jewels, I mean?"
Hawkril let out a long, reluctant sigh and said slowly, "Fear. Fear for her. Something's going to happen to Embra. Something bad. I can feel it."
He looked sidelong at Craer, expecting the usual wry quip or light-heartedly tasteless comment, but his old friend wore no smile. Lifting his eyes to meet Hawkril's gaze, the procurer nodded soberly. "I've dreamed of such things, too-different horrors, different grim fates, but all of them dark."
They stared at each other in silence for a long, long breath, and then in unison, without another word spoken, turned to look south across the river.
On the ever-rushing waters below, a larger, grander barge than most-one of the most splendid for hire in Sirlptar-was drawing up to the Flow-foam docks.
"Of course it's not wise," the King of Aglirta told his guards angrily, "but I'm going to do it anyway. The Three damn me if I'm going to cower in a corner of my palace forever, neglecting my realm around me. These idiots made me King, and I'm not going to sit there in front of them shirking every last royal duty!"
The idiots so forcefully indicated were the overdukes who walked so closely and watchfully around him, only a faint shimmering of the air indicating that two of them were using the Dwaer-Stones held ready under their court cloaks to shield the young king.
Blackgult-who'd brought word up from the docks to the bard Flaeros Delcamper, and so also to all in the room with him-strode before King Castlecloaks, and Embra Silvertree walked behind him, with the sorceress Tshamarra Talasorn flanking the monarch on one side, and Flaeros walking beside him on the other. The royal guards in their full armor, Suldun Greatsarn watchfully at the rear, stalked along in a tight ring around this royal party-making the steps down to the docks quite crowded.
"I see the Delcampers stint not," Tshamarra remarked, surveying the boat that awaited below.
"The best is always cheaper in the long run," Flaeros replied, as they came out onto the broad sweep of the docks, and the guards there lifted their weapons in salute and stepped back.
The voyagers, all in Delcamper livery, were drawn up to greet the king: a dozen servants, with the swordcaptain of their travel escort of six house warriors at their head. He saluted Flaeros, bowed to King Castlecloaks, and then smoothly stood aside before anyone could speak, revealing who'd been standing behind him: an old, small woman leaning on a silver-handled cane.
"Your Majesty," Flaeros said with a broad smile, "may I present again to you the Lady of Chambers who has served so many of my family so well, for far more years than I've been alive-and is more truly noble than any dozen Delcampers: the Lady Natha Orele."
The king grinned and extended his hand in time to stop the aged Lady of Chambers from trying to kneel to him. "No, please-no one should kneel to me unless I'm passing sentence on them," he said firmly. "Flaeros, be informal, hey?"
The bard grinned and joyfully swept the old woman into an embrace. "Am I mortifying you enough, Orele?" he asked, when he'd finished kissing her.
"Tolerably, Lord," was the dry reply-which so delighted Raulin Castiecloaks that he took a turn at embracing a Lady of Chambers.
"Now that was foolish," she chided him. "I could be a murderous priestess of the Serpent!"
Raulin grinned. "Well, are you?"
"Not this morning, dear," she said gently. "But let us all start this formidable climb, the sooner to have something to drink, hey? I'll be putting us to work right briskly, by the look of you two. Has the palace run short of servants, or is there some crazed current fashion for sleeping in your armor?"