Part 3 (1/2)
Before Morva could finish, Raffin swooped down and kissed her squarely on the lips. Her already scarlet face turned purple, but she grinned. ”Get on, then. Lord Durrel, what would your lady mother say, I wonder?”
”I think she'd ask you to please get Phandre, Celyn, and Lady Merista something to eat,” Durrel said patiently.
The kitchen woman fed us, tut-tutting all the while over the state of our clothes, our hair, our appet.i.tes, and my size. ”A mousy thing like you, even your clothes don't fit proper. We'll find you something else, pet. Lord Ragn don't let his guests go hungry or cold.”
I ate in silence, taking in the noisy room as servants bustled about. The food was simple and good, obviously the servants' portion, but I would have eaten cat stew and liked it at that point. They only gave me a clay bowl and a hunk of bread to mop up the broth; hadn't these people heard of spoons? They hadn't heard of much that was grand or valuable, apparently. In all that great room, aside from Merista's silver and Raffin's amber ring - which I would have, by the end of this - the only things of value appeared to be the roasting spit (too big to carry), the stone statue of Mend-kaal on the hearth (impossible to sell these days), and a couple of books on cookery. Not even worth it.
As I absorbed my surroundings and my meal, Morva filled the others in on just how much trouble they were in. ”You've done it now, then, Master. Don't you know they've been at hounds and pitchforks looking for you both? The night of your own betrothal, and the very day Lady Meri's parents sail back to Llyvraneth?”
”What?” Merista pulled away from the woman.
The cook held up her left hand and kissed her knuckles. ”You didn't hear it from me, but word came this morning. They've landed in Tratua and will be sailing home this week. You were supposed to meet them in Gerse, young lady, so that the entire lot of you could be presented before the king. His Majesty won't be pleased. No, not at all.”
”But they never wrote,” Merista said in a shaky voice. ”What happened?”
”Ah, pet, I'm sure they meant to, if it weren't so sudden. Seems His Majesty's decided Llyvraneth no longer needs an emissary in Corlesanne. Or Corlesanne's decided they don't want Llyvrins in their court. Either way, it amounts to the same thing, love: Your lord parents are on their way home even now.”
Even I knew that wasn't a good sign. A king recalling his eyes and ears in a foreign court - particularly one that had shown itself sympathetic to Sarists? It could be a prelude to war. The Corles letters in my sleeve didn't seem so cold and dead anymore.
”That's just like Bardolph,” Durrel said grimly. ”Pick a fight overseas, and ignore the trouble brewing on your own doorstep.”
”Take cheer, Lady Meri,” said Morva. ”It means your lord parents will be here for your kernja-velde, and they'll be wanting to take you home with them again.”
I perked up. The kernja-velde - a girl's pa.s.sage into adulthood on her fourteenth birthday - was a cause for celebration for any Llyvrin family: fine food and presents for hosts and guests alike, including a traditional gift of seven coins from everyone in attendance to build the girl's dowry. Seventh Circle kernja-veldes meant coppers and strikes; a n.o.b's had to be a festival like nothing I'd ever seen. Fountains of gold. I could almost smell the coins.
”Where's home?” I interjected.
”Caerellis,” Merista said. ”But my birthday's not for months.”
Pox.
”Aye, and you'll spend those months as girls in this family have spent them for generations: in seclusion with your family,” said Morva.
”Yes,” said Phandre. ”They need to turn you into a proper lady.”
Merista flushed, and Morva gave Phandre a short, hard look. ”As if the likes of you would know anything about being a proper lady.”
I liked this kitchen drudge.
Merista just poked at her food after that until Durrel finally stood up from the table. ”Where's my father now?” he asked.
”Still at table. With the Taradyce, I might add.”
I saw Durrel nod. ”Fair enough. Come, lad and la.s.ses!” He grabbed a flagon and some goblets from the table. ”Let's serve up our own punishment, shall we?”
Merista fell in line easily, but Phandre scowled heavily. I took my cue from her. ”Maybe I should just stay here.”
”Oh, no, no, no,” Raffin said, yanking me to my feet. ”In for a finger, in for a fist. You're one of us now, Celyn.”
That's what I was afraid of.
We followed Durrel from the kitchens to the dining hall. Torchlight threw leaping shadows against the low stone ceiling, which was black with years of smoke, making the room feel even more closed in. Even I hunched a little.
A handful of men and one or two women looked up at our approach. Seated at the very center of the high table, like a vast golden lion, and holding court as if this was his familial manor, was Raffin's father.
”Stop.”
We froze in a ragged line at the sound of that voice. It came from a man at Hron Taradyce's left hand. I swallowed hard, sure I had been discovered.
”Lord Durrel.”
Durrel stepped forward. ”Yes, sir.” Somehow, even carrying a silver ewer and goblets like a servant, he managed to look n.o.ble. With a slight bow to his head, he set the pitcher on the long table.
The diners seemed to part around the man with the cold voice. He was obviously Durrel's father; the younger Decath would look like that in another twenty-one years or so.
”Lord Durrel, do you care to explain your actions of the last two days?” His voice was like a knife of ice.
Durrel did not move. ”No, sir.”
” 'No, sir'?” Lord Decath echoed. ”You removed two girls from the care of their guardians and took them on a drunken orgy in a stolen boat, and all you have is 'no, sir'?”
”Yes, sir.”
”Lord Decath, I think I can explain -” Raffin's silver voice cut through, and he stepped toward the table, bowing deeply. ”You see -”
”Shut up.”
Raffin reeled back as if he'd been struck. Hron Taradyce was leaning his golden bulk over the table toward his son. I could imagine how Raffin felt; Taradyce was like a small sun burning at the center of his own universe - too easy to get singed in his presence.
But I couldn't spare much sympathy for Raffin. I was too busy staring at a small crack in the stone of the floor, letting the dim light of the hall keep my face in shadows. Anyone in this room had the power to send me straight to King Bardolph's gaol, but only Hron Taradyce had a good reason for it. A few forged patents, an incriminating letter or two. This was . . . inconvenient.
”I'm sure you find this all very amusing, boy,” Taradyce was saying, as Raffin shrunk a good few inches. ”But I'd like to remind you who owns that boat you've been cruising about in. Who owns that wine you reek of.”
”You do, milord,” Raffin said miserably.
”And then who?”
His head bowed, he spat out the word. ”Stolo.”
”That's right. Your brother. And if you don't manage to get every harbor brat between here and Yeris Volbann with child before you come of age, you miserable waste, then there might be something left over for you. But until then, you will not treat my property as if the city is your own personal plea sure garden.”
”But, Father -”
”You will address me in public as Lord Taradyce. Do you need another reminder?”
Raffin swayed on his feet. He was still a little drunk, and I hadn't seen him eat anything all day. It would put the cap on his humiliation if he were to spew his gorge right here at his father's feet.