“You did,” John acknowledged. “I had not known it would come at the price of a war, though.”
“The war would have come in any event,” Niobhyte said easily. “Your parents would have made war upon Merovence if not upon one another. As it is, you can blame the elf-shot on the Lord Wizard, and claim he did it to keep Bretanglia from attacking his queen and wife.”
John’s eye gleamed. “Yes, I can see that would serve.” He sat in a chair opposite Niobhyte’s.
“I regret that your road to power came at the cost of the lives of your brothers, and your father’s illness.” Niobhyte’s expression said that he was anything but sorry.
John waved away the half apology. “Believe me, it scarcely tears at my heart. I would have slain my brothers myself, for all Gaheris’ hurts and Brion’s arrogance and condescension. As to my father, he has suffered only a fraction of the hurt due him.” John’s hand tightened on the goblet as he remembered his mother’s furious denunciations of mistress after mistress. They must have been true, for his mother had said it.
“I understand.” Niobhyte nodded. “Always the youngest, always the smallest. It is only your due if, after all, you rise to rule.”
“Yessss.” It was more a hiss than a word as John gazed into his cup.
“You rule already,” Niobhyte reminded him, “in fact if not in word.”
“Yes, I must have the shadow of my father behind me for some few weeks more,” John agreed, “until all the barons have accepted my authority. Of course, I will only deliver those of my father’s commands that serve my own interests, and if I issue a few orders of which Father knows nothing, who will care?”
“Quite true,” Niobhyte agreed. “However, you do indeed need your father for some time yet, if your only power is as his regent.”
“True, very true.” John’s nose wrinkled as though at a foul smell. “Curse Brion for having made his body disappear! If I could prove his death, I could be king in my own right.”
“Believe me, he could not have transported his own corpse away from us,” Niobhyte told him. “I would suspect the Lord Wizard of Merovence of the deed.”
John darted a quick, suspicious look at him. “You blame him for all my troubles, don’t you?”
“And with good reason,” Niobhyte maintained. “His purpose is to keep Bretanglia too weak and too disorganized to attack Merovence. The more confusion he can create, the less the danger to his wife. No, Highness—Majesty that will be—you must wait until you have consolidated your power over the nobles and the Church before your father can pass to his reward. Whether you are crowned or not, they will rebel against you if they can. Even King Drustan has had to put down rebellions from time to time, though the people love him for making the land safe and prosperous.”
“Oh, I shall make it safe and prosperous, too,” John purred, gazing into the fire. “I shall make it safe and prosperous indeed—for myself.”
Two nights later Matt and his companions found an inn as the sun was setting. As they were about to go in, Matt noticed something. He stopped Sir Orizhan with a hand on the shoulder.
“What troubles you?” the knight asked, then followed the direction of Mart’s gaze.
“The bird.” Matt pointed.
Looking, his companions saw a big black avian, like a very oversized crow, sitting on a windowsill and peering into the inn.
“It hopes to beg a crust or two, I doubt not,” Sir Orizhan said.
Sergeant Brock nodded. “It was ever the way of ravens to wait for what was left.”
“If you say so,” Matt said, with misgivings, and started to follow them in, when the bird turned and fixed him with a bright black bead of an eye. A chill passed through Matt; he felt that he had never seen such malice in a bird’s glance, such sheer gloating malevolence and eagerness to pounce.
Then the raven turned its attention back to the interior of the inn, and it was only a large black bird again. Slowly, Matt followed his companions into the inn.
They walked into a blast of noise—conversation, laughter, snatches of song, and the clattering of wooden platters. Serving wenches swiveled through the crowd, trays held high. Glasses lifted in toast.
“Quite a party,” Matt observed. “What do you think they’re celebrating?”
Sir Orizhan shrugged. “Life.”
“Do you think we will be able to stay the night this time?” Sergeant Brock asked.
“We can only hope,” Matt sighed.
“I mean no offense, Lord Wizard,” Sir Orizhan said, “but this bauchan of yours is proving to be a most pernicious nuisance.”
“Not so loud,” Matt hissed. “He might hear, and take it as a compliment.” Then, in a more normal voice, “I’m really sorry about this, guys, but he isn’t my bauchan—not willingly, anyway.”
“So long as he does not take us for your family, I suppose we will be well enough,” Sir Orizhan said. He surveyed the room and shook his head. “We have come late—there is no table empty.”
“There is one in the back corner.” Sergeant Brock pointed. “There is only the one man at it.”
The one man in question was hunched over, glowering at his tankard and muttering to himself.
“Not the world’s most savory company,” Matt said warily, “but it’s the only table with any room. Brace yourselves for an unpleasant meal.”
“I would say that we should go on to the next village and chance the inn there,” Sir Orizhan said, “save that we have already done so, and the darkness is upon us. It may be that you should stop urging us to just one more village, Lord Wizard.”
It was getting to be a running argument. “But we’re going so slowly as it is,” Matt protested. “We run into so many delays.”
Sir Orizhan sighed. “Then we shall have to suffer the company of a drunkard.”
“Pooh! We’ll only listen for the space it takes him to drink three more stoups of ale,” Sergeant Brock told him. “Then he’ll fall asleep and we’ll be rid of his talk.”
“Oh, really?” Matt regarded the drunk with a jaundiced eye. “How is he going to get three more stoups?”
“Why, you will buy them for him.” Sergeant Brock grinned. “Is it not a small price for peace?”
“I suppose so,” Matt sighed, “and money’s no problem yet. Gentlemen, be seated.”
Sir Orizhan sat with him, but Sergeant Brock stared, offended. He started to speak, but caught himself.
Matt frowned up at him. “What’s the matter? Sit down.”
The offense turned into disbelief. “But I am not a gentleman!”
Matt felt a surge of guilt as he remembered that no one below the rank of squire counted as a gentleman in this medieval world, and gentlemen did not dine with lower classes outside of common rooms. He started to correct the error, but before he could speak, Sir Orizhan beckoned the man close. “You are my squire for the space of this venture. I raise you to it, and shall make it lasting with all due ceremony if we succeed in our venture.”
Conflicting emotions warred in Brock’s face for a moment— disbelief, joy, and apprehension. Matt could understand it— peasants were almost never raised to the gentry, and if they didn’t succeed, this amazing prize might be snatched away from the sergeant. But he must have remembered that if they didn’t succeed, they’d probably be dead, because the joy won the skirmish, and he sat down beside Sir Orizhan, bowing his head. “I thank you, Sir Knight. From the depths of my heart.”
“You honor me as much as I you,” Sir Orizhan said generously.
“Honor!” the drunk across the table snarled. ” ‘S only a ‘scuse for killin’a good onezh!” He lifted his tankard, glare defying them to disagree. “Long live Prince Brion!”