Bane left Hugh’s side, going over to the chamberlain’s pack to find his treat. Alfred pitched his voice for Hugh’s ears alone. “It’s just . . . You see, sir, the king never really talked that much to the boy. King Stephen was never quite … uh … comfortable in Bane’s presence.”
No, Hugh mused, Stephen must not have found it pleasant to look into the face of his shame. Perhaps, in the boy’s features, the king saw a man he-and his queen-knew all too well.
The glow of the pipe died. Knocking out the ashes, Hugh found a small twig and, splitting the end with his dagger, thrust it into the bowl and attempted to clean out the blockage. He cast a glance at the boy and saw Bane still rummaging through the pack.
“You really believe this kid can do what he claims-sees pictures in the air-don’t you?”
“He can!” Alfred assured him earnestly. “I have seen him do it too many times to doubt. And you must believe it too, sir, or else …”
Hugh, pausing in his work, looked up at Alfred.
“Or else? That sounds very much like a threat.”
Alfred cast his eyes down. His hurt hand nervously plucked the leaves off a cupplant. “I … I didn’t mean it-”
“Yes, you did.” Hugh knocked the pipe on a rock. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with that feather he wears, would it? The one given him by a mysteriarch?”
Alfred went livid, becoming so pale Hugh was half-afraid he might faint again. The chamberlain swallowed several times before he found his voice. “I don’t-”
A snapping branch interrupted him. Bane was returning to the fire. Hugh saw Alfred cast the boy the grateful glance of a drowning man who has been tossed a rope.
The prince, absorbed in enjoying his sweetmelt, didn’t notice. He threw himself on the ground and, picking up a stick, began to poke at the fire.
“Would you like to hear the story of the Battle of Seven Fields, Your Highness?” Hugh asked quietly.
The prince looked up, eyes shining. “I’ll bet you were a hero, weren’t you, Sir Hugh!”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” interrupted Alfred meekly, “but I don’t take you for a patriot. How did you chance to be at the battle to free our homeland?”
Hugh was about to reply when the chamberlain winced and hurriedly jumped up. Reaching down on the ground where he’d been sitting, Alfred picked up a large piece of broken coralite. Its knife-sharp edges sparkled in the firelight. Fortunately, the leather breeches he wore, which they had purchased from a cobbler, had protected him from serious harm.
“You’re right. Politics mean nothing to me.” A thin trickle of smoke curled up from Hugh’s lips. “Let’s just say that I was there on business. . . .”
… A man entered the inn and stood blinking in the dim light. It was early morning, and the common room was empty except for a slovenly woman scrubbing the floor and a traveler seated at a table in deep shadow.
“Are you Hugh, called the Hand?” the man who had entered asked the traveler.
“I am.”
“I want to hire you.” The man plunked a bag down in front of Hugh. Opening it and sorting through it, Hugh saw coins, jewelry, and even a few silver spoons. Pausing, he lifted out what was obviously a woman’s wedding ring and looked at the man narrowly.
“That comes from a number of us, for none was rich enough to hire you himself. We gave what valuables we had.”
“Who’s the mark?”
“A certain captain who hires himself out to the gentry to train and lead foot soldiers in battle. He’s a bully and a coward and he’s sent more than one squad to its doom while he’s stayed safe behind and collected his fee. You’ll find him with Warren of Kurinandistai, marching with the army of King Stephen. I’ve heard they’re headed for a place called Seven Fields, on the continent.”
“And what’s the special service you require of me? You and”-Hugh patted the money sack-“all these.”
“Widows and kinsmen of those he last led, sir,” said the man. His eyes glinted. “We ask this for our money: that he be killed in such a manner that it will be obvious no enemy hand touched him, that he knows who has bought his death, and” -the man carefully held out to Hugh a small scroll-“that this be left on the body. …”
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