“Yes, sir,” I murmured.
“Good.” At Thadro’s signal, the guard flung open the door, revealing not the dining hall I’d expected, but a salon. There was a lit fireplace at one end with a large wreath made of fall grasses woven with oak leaves and acorns hung over the mantelpiece, and bundled wheat stalks stood on either side of the hearth. Fat candles surrounded by colorful gourds and leaves decorated several low tables that were strategically placed by couches and chairs. The drapes were thrown back and the candlelight cast bright squares out the windows, catching passersby’s faces as they looked up in brief wonder before hurrying on in the cold night.
However, there wasn’t any wonder inside the salon. The royal guests knew exactly who I was and what they thought about it. I was met at the doorway with a wall of hostile stares and I came to a full halt. Thadro, though, plunged into the crowd without pause, and I knew that one too. Taking a deep breath, I dived in after the Lord Commander, and we worked our way through town officials and local gentry standing cheek by jowl with the Great Lords who had followed Jusson to Freston. Some of the lords sported the dark hair and olive complexions of the southern aristos, while others had the blond paleness of the northern Marcher Lords.
There weren’t any women, though. As Jusson was unmarried—and as he’d apparently left whatever female relative acted as royal hostess back in Iversly—none of the men brought wives, daughters or sisters. And that wasn’t the only lack. Following the Lord Commander, I searched the room to see if Lord Esclaur ibn Dhawn e Jas was present, the lordling having been part of the delegation Jusson had sent to the Border last spring. However, I realized that not only was he missing, but there weren’t any of the younger sons that made up Jusson’s bachelor’s court. Except for his royal guard, his Lord Commander and his servants, the king had come to Freston alone.
Arriving at a trio of comfortable-looking chairs placed against the far wall opposite the fireplace, Thadro slipped behind one while I did the same on the other end and, side by side, we faced the room—and I immediately became aware of other missing folk. There was no one from the garrison, not even the garrison commander.
“Are Captain Suiden and Captain Javes coming, sir?” I asked, my voice low.
“That’s not your concern, Lieutenant,” Thadro said, just as softly. “Your ties with the garrison have been severed.”
Fighting against a scowl, I turned back to the room—and met Doyen Dyfrig’s eyes. Though my attending Eveningsong was good enough for Peacekeeper Chadde, it seemed that it didn’t carry much weight with the head of the Freston church. My gaze skittered away from his expression, only to land on Mayor Gawell. His honor looked even more unhappy and I flinched from him, to find myself looking at Lord Beollan of Fellmark. He smiled and I grinned back in relief at finding a friendly face. And there was one female presence in this solid mass of maleness. Behind Beollan stood Chadde, showing her customary calm. Apparently she’d made a very good impression on King Jusson as she was the only petty town official present. She had taken the time to go home and change her breeks for a plain gray gown. Then she met my gaze, and I realized that it wasn’t so plain—it matched her eyes, making them seem to glow in the candlelight.
“By the king, Thadro?” A Great Lord shoved his way through to stand in front of us, his legs braced apart, his hands resting on his hips. “He works witchery and you have him next to His Majesty?”
I glanced down. He was right. The middle chair had a crown carved into its back. I looked up at the lord and met cold eyes. I glared back and felt a thump in my side.
“Lieutenant Lord Rabbit is not a witch, Ranulf,” Thadro said, the bony point of his elbow digging into my ribs.
“I know Captain Suiden’s lads,” Mayor Gawell said, “and this pagan is not Rabbit.” He pushed his way through the crowd to stand next to Lord Ranulf. Gawell wore a black velvet robe with scarlet slashes in the sleeves that were echoed not only in its embroidered collar and cuffs, but also in his leggings. But what might’ve been fashionable on a smaller frame was overwhelming because of Gawell’s girth. Even his chain of office didn’t hang straight, but rather rested at an angle on the upper curve of his belly so that its seven-pointed starburst medallion flashed up into the face of anyone standing before him.
Gawell’s jowly cheeks were tinged red as he glared at me. “Destroy my town, will you? Demon spawn!”
The muttering swelled and several of the locals made warding signs against evil, while the aristos allowed their hands to drift towards sword hilts and daggers. I felt a tingle in my fingers as my rune began to itch, my own hand twitching over my sword—and behind the cover of the chairs Thadro grabbed my sleeve, holding my arm still.
“Of course that’s Rabbit, Gawell,” Doyen Dyfrig said. He didn’t have to push—the crowd opened up to allow him to stand by the mayor. “He was at church last night, staying through the last hymn and prayer, and Chadde tells me that he was in Theater Square bright and early this morning, doing his best to chat up one of the players.” He sighed and a wry look came over his worn face, his faded blue eyes twinkling a bit. “Who else would it be?”
The heat returned to my cheekbones as snickers arose along with conjectures about the fair Rosea—and the tension eased.
Lord Ranulf, however, took a step closer, peering at me. “But did Lord Rabbit have blue eyes? I remember them being brown when we met in Iversly last spring.”
The Great Lord was right again—my eyes had been brown from birth until they changed last Midsummer’s Day during my fight with Kareste. Right or not, though, the man before me was a stranger. Wearing a gray tunic and leggings, he was a somber contrast to the more vivid mayor. Except for his hair. It was a fiery red that reminded me of Rosea’s, and was done in the Marcher style of warrior braids that hung from his temples, woven with ribbons in his House colors, while the rest was loose. But instead of Rosea’s creamy smooth skin, Ranulf had freckles across his nose and cheekbones, disappearing into his mustache and beard. And instead of her neat figure and green eyes, he was tall and brawny, with dark brown eyes that seemed as deep as a cave. While my time in the Royal City had been rather chaotic, I thought I would’ve remembered such a determinedly northern lord.
“We’ve met—?” I began, but Thadro stepped on my foot.
“Rabbit’s eyes were brown, not blue like this creature’s,” Mayor Gawell said, not noticing my smothered yelp. His honor made another warding gesture. “Cut off its hair and burn its staff, and then we will see what really stands before us.”
Mayor Gawell was a congenial sort, more inclined to good food and company than belligerence (unless town property was damaged). Now, however, his eyes were bulging out in his ire, his heavy face twisted in a way that reminded me of the mob that afternoon.
“Shear the witch!” someone called out from behind the crowd, and the same guests who’d been snickering and making lewd comments just a moment ago actually growled, one even starting to draw his sword.
At that moment, though, Dyfrig moved to stand next to me. “Will you start an affray in His Majesty’s house, messirs?” He glanced around, his eyes not so twinkly anymore, and the guests paused, the mayor even taking a step back.