The only female present was Oyre, who kept her dark gaze fixed uneasily on the floor. She sat partly behind her father’s chair, so as to remain in the shadows that danced against the wall.
All these faces were familiar to the old master, as were the more spectral ones ranged on the walls below the beams—the skulls of phagors and other enemies of the hamlet.
Master Datnil seated himself on a rug on the floor next to his fellow corpsmen. Aoz Roon clapped his hands, and a slave woman came down from the floor above, carrying a tray on which were a jug and eleven carved wooden cups; Master Datnil realised when a measure of rathel was handed to him that the cups had once belonged to Wall Ein.
“You are welcome,” Aoz Roon said loudly, lifting his cup. All drank the sweet cloudy liquid.
Aoz Roon spoke. He said that he intended to rule with more firmness than his predecessors. He would tolerate no lawlessness. He would consult the council as before, the council to consist as before of the masters of the seven makers corps. He would defend Oldorando against all enemies. He would not let women or slaves interfere with decent life. He would guarantee that nobody would starve. He would permit people to consult their gossies when they wished. He thought the academy a waste of time when the women had work to do.
Most of what he said was meaningless, or meant only that he intended to rule. He spoke, it could not but be noted, in a peculiar way, as if he wrestled with demons. His eyes often stared, he clutched the arms of his chair as if he was struggling with an inward torment. So that although his remarks were themselves inconsequential, the manner of delivery was horrifyingly original. The wind whistled and his voice rose and fell.
“Laintal Ay and Dathka will be my chief officers, and see my orders are carried out. They’re young and sensible. All right, damn it, that’s enough talk.”
But the master of the brewers’ corps interrupted in a firm voice, saying, “My Lord, you move too fast for those of us with slow wits. Some of us might like to ponder on why you appoint as your lieutenants two saplings, when we have men of oak about us who would serve better.”
“I’ve made my choice,” said Aoz Roon, rubbing his trunk to and fro against the back of his chair.
“But perhaps you have made it too fast, sire. Consider how many good men we have … what of your own generation, such as Eline Tal and Tanth Ein?”
Aoz Roon brought his fist down on the chair arm. “We need youth, action. That’s my choice. Now you may go, all of you.”
Datnil Skar rose slowly, and said, “My Lord, forgive me, but such hasty dismissal damages your merit, not ours. Are you ill, are you in pain?”
“Eddre, man, go, can’t you, when asked? Oyre—”
“The custom is for your council of masters to drink to you, to toast your reign, sire.”
The gaze of the Lord of Embruddock rolled up to the beams and down again.
“Master Datnil, I know you old men are short of breath and long on words. Spare me. Go, will you, before I have you replaced too. Away, all of you, my thanks, but go, away into this beastly weather.”
“But—”
“Go!” He groaned and clutched himself.
A surly dismissal, and the old men of the council departed muttering, blowing out their toothless cheeks in indignation. Not a good omen… . Laintal Ay and Dathka left, shaking their heads.
As soon as he was alone with his daughter, Aoz Roon fell on the floor and rolled about, groaning, kicking, and scratching himself.
“Did you bring that medicated goose fat from Mistress Datnil, girl?” he asked his daughter.
“Yes, Father.” Oyre produced a leather box containing a soft hunk of grease.
“You’re going to have to rub it on my body.”
“I can’t do that, Father.”
“Of course you can, and you will.”
Her eyes flashed. “I will not do it. You heard what I said. Get your slave woman to do it. That’s what she’s for, isn’t it? Or else I’ll get Rol Sakil.”