The First Hazard’s impolitic retort was interrupted by an apprentice who burst in, saying: “My lords Hazard, a man has breached our wards, a stranger-that is, we think so, but he’s coming-up the stairs, now, and he’s got his horse with him…”
The handsome First Hazard hung his head, staring at his twisting fingers in his lap, and lied to the wide-eyed apprentice, “It’s a summoning. We were expecting him. Go back to your work…. What is it, for dinner? We’ll have guests, of course-man and… horse.”
“Dinner? It’s…” The apprentice was a witchling girl, thick-haired, short and comely, with a small waist that accentuated breast and hips despite her shapeless beginner’s robe. Her face was rosy-cheeked and heart-shaped, and
Randal wondered why he’d never noticed her, then banished the thought: He was betrothed, soon to be wed to Jihan, a source of power he never mentioned in this afflicted Mageguild.
The girl, composing herself with obvious effort, said, “Parrots, fleas, and squirrel bunions, m’lords Hazard-a stew, if it pleases.”
“What?” snapped the harried First Hazard. Then, when the girl covered her mouth under widening eyes, continued: “Never mind the accursed menu, get out of here.
And keep everyone else away until the dinner bell. Go on, girl, go!”
As she scurried backwards, a clomping of hoofbeats could be heard, followed by a sound like porcelain crashing on a marble floor.
And then, through the great double doors whence the girl had just fled, a horse and rider came.
The horseman hadn’t dismounted; the horse had eyes of fiery intelligence and pricked its ears at Randal. Its coat was mottled, red and black and gray, but there was no mistaking it: It was the Tros horse of his commander.