“Shards, it’s burned on the one side and raw on the others.” That sentence was bellowed in a tone of fury and frustration. A canine yipped piteously. Robinton could hear slapping and more screams and groans as the cook evidently vented his feelings on his helpless drudges.
“Us’ns’d have it, if it’s meat,” the first drudge muttered to himself, wistfully licking lips. He took a deep breath.
“Smell’s all we’s likely to have,” the other said.
Not that the smell was at all appetizing. But Robinton used their interest in the kitchen activities to cover his movements as he stealthily backed off into the shadows. He had noticed as they passed the main Hold door that there were no guards either at the door or in the Hall. He couldn’t enter in his guise of a drudge, but surely he could sneak into the guard barracks and change into something … more appropriate.
He slipped in just in time to hear one of the underleaders assigning posts for the evening, and he ducked into an alcove as they tramped past him, the dim glowbaskets neatly shadowing him.
Fortunately, many of Fax’s soldiers were of a generous size and they had brought several changes of clothes with them. He found the cleanest and, happily shedding his filthy, sweaty rags, put them on. A bit loose at the waist and a bit short in the leg, but he used his own belt and secured the trousers. He took the sleeve of his shirt and scrubbed at his boots, getting the worst of the stable muck off them.
“Where the shards were you.”?” a harsh voice called.
Robinton whirled round to see a guard underleader in the doorway.
“Relieved me’sel,” he muttered, wondering if the sudden pounding of his heart would give him away.
“Up to the Hall, then. Want every one of you up there “case those sharding dragonriders doan know theys manners.” The grin suggested that the man was aching to teach dragonriders manners.
“Yuss,” Robinton said. He squared his shoulders, which was not easy after a day’s crouching, and passed the underleader cautiously, as if expecting a kick on his way. But no kick came. A quick look back told him that the man was bending over his saddlebags, extracting his sword-belt.
Reaching the Hall, Robinton slowed to avoid stepping on the heels of Fax’s two underleaders, who were escorting their Lord into the chamber with one of his ladies. The Warder was effusively bowing them in. Robinton slipped along the wall as if he had been in the wake of the latest arrivals and took up a position halfway between the guards already in place. Neither took note of him, their attention focused on the dragonriders seated at one of the trestle tables set up perpendicular to the raised dais which held the head table. With relief, Robinton spotted C’gan’s silvery head and then looked along to spot the young rider, F’nor. There was no mistaking his lineage as F’lon’s son: it was there in the cocked head and the slight smile. F’nor was watching his half-brother at the head table, talking to one of Fax’s ladies, seated beside him. Lady Gemma occupied the seat on the other side. F’lar didn’t seem all that happy in such company. Just then a crawler dropped from the ceiling on to the table, and Lady Gemma noticeably winced.
Fax went stamping up the steps to the head table. He pulled back his chair roughly, slamming it into the Lady Gemma’s before he seated himself. Then he pulled the chair to the table with a force that threatened to rock the none-too-stable trestle-top from its supporting legs. Scowling, he inspected his goblet and plate.
“A roast, my Lord Fax, and fresh bread, Lord Fax, and such
fruits and roots as are left.” The Warder approached the head table, clearly apprehensive.
“Left? Left? You said there was nothing harvested here.”
The Warder’s eyes bulged and he gulped. “Nothing to be sent on,” he stammered. “Nothing good enough to be sent on. Nothing.
Had I but known of your arrival, I could have sent to Crom—”
“Sent to Crom?” roared Fax, slamming the plate he was inspecting on to the table so forcefully that the rim bent under his hands. The Warder winced again.