Part 8 (2/2)
”What are you thinking?” Count Drake asked, looking at Azoth quizzically.
”A n.o.ble of some sort, relatively poor. The kind who gets invited to social events but doesn't attract attention.”
”Hmm,” Count Drake said. ”The third son of a baron, then. He'll be upper n.o.bility, but n.o.body important. Or wait. An eastern baron. My second cousins live two days' ride beyond Havermere, and most of their lands have been seized by the Lae'knaught, so if you want an ironclad ident.i.ty, we could make him a Stern.”
”That will do.”
”First name?” Count Drake asked Azoth.
”Azoth,” Azoth said.
”Not your real name, son,” the count said. ”Your new name.”
”Kylar,” Durzo said.
The count produced a piece of blank paper and put on the pince nez. ”How do you want to spell that? K-Y-L-E-R? K-I-L-E-R?”
Durzo spelled it and the solicitor wrote it down. Count Drake grinned. ”Old Jaeran punning?”
”You know me,” Durzo said.
”No, Durzo, I don't think anyone does. Still, kind of ominous, don't you think?”
”It fits the life.”
For about the hundredth time, Azoth felt like he was not simply a child but an outsider. It seemed everywhere there were secrets that he couldn't know, mysteries he couldn't penetrate. Now it wasn't just muted conversations with Momma K about something called a ka'kari, or Sa'kage politics, or court intrigues, or magic, or creatures from the Freeze that were imaginary but Durzo insisted did exist, or others that he insisted didn't, or references to G.o.ds and angels that Blint wouldn't explain to him even when he did ask. Now it was his own name. Azoth was about to demand an explanation, but they were already moving on to other things.
The count said, ”How soon do you need this and how solid does it have to be?”
”Solid. Sooner is better.”
”I thought so,” the count said. ”I'll make it good enough that unless the real Sterns come here, no one will ever know. Of course, you're still left with a rather significant problem. You have to train him to be a n.o.ble.”
”Oh no I don't.”
”Of course you...” the count trailed off. He clicked his tongue. ”I see.” He adjusted his pince nez and looked at Azoth. ”When shall I take him?”
”In a few months, if he lives that long. There are things I need to teach him first.” Durzo looked out the window. ”Who's that?”
”Ah,” Count Drake said. ”That's the young Lord Logan Gyre. A young man who will make a fine duke one day.”
”No, the Sethi.”
”I don't know. Haven't seen him before. Looks like an adviser.”
Durzo cursed. He grabbed Azoth's hand and practically dragged him out the door.
”Are you ready to obey?” Durzo demanded.
Azoth nodded quickly.
”See that boy?”
”You call that a boy?” Azoth asked. The young man the count had called Logan Gyre wore a green cloak with black piping, fine black leather boots polished to a high sheen, a cotton tunic, and a sword. He was twenty paces from the door and was being shown in by a porter. His face looked young, but his frame made him look years older than Azoth. He was huge, already taller than Azoth would probably ever be and thicker and wider than anyone he knew, and he didn't look fat. Where Azoth felt awkward and clumsy in his clothes, Logan looked comfortable, confident, handsome, lordly. Just looking at him made Azoth feel shabby. taller than Azoth would probably ever be and thicker and wider than anyone he knew, and he didn't look fat. Where Azoth felt awkward and clumsy in his clothes, Logan looked comfortable, confident, handsome, lordly. Just looking at him made Azoth feel shabby.
”Start a fight with him. Distract the Sethi until I can get out.”
”Logan!” a girl cried out from upstairs.
”Serah!” Logan called, looking up.
Azoth looked at Master Blint, but he was gone. There was no time to say anything. It didn't matter whether he understood or not. There were mysteries he wasn't allowed to understand yet. He could only act or wait, obey or disobey.
The porter opened the door and Azoth stepped back around the corner, out of sight. As Logan stepped inside and looked up the stairs, a smile curving his lips, Azoth stepped around the corner.
They collided and Azoth landed on his back. Logan almost tripped over him as Azoth rolled to the side and caught Logan's foot in the stomach.
”Oof!”
Logan caught himself on the banister. ”I'm so sorry-”
”You fat ape!” Azoth staggered to his feet, holding his stomach. ”You clumsy gutters.h.i.+te-” he cut off as he realized all the curses he knew would mark him as coming from the Warrens.
”I didn't-” Logan said.
”What's going on?” the girl asked from the top of the stairs. Logan looked up, a guilty look flas.h.i.+ng across his face.
Azoth punched him in the nose. Logan's head rocked back.
”Logan!” the Sethi man shouted.
But Logan's mild expression was gone. His face was a mask, intense, but not furious. He grabbed Azoth's cloak and lifted him off the ground.
Azoth panicked; he threw punches blindly, screaming, his fists grazing Logan's cheeks and chin.
”Logan!”
”Stop it!” Logan shouted in Azoth's face. ”Stop it!” Azoth went crazy, and Logan's intensity flashed into fury. He s.h.i.+fted his hands and held Azoth off the ground with one, then buried his other fist in Azoth's stomach once, twice. The wind rushed from Azoth's lungs. Then a fist the size of a sledge flattened his nose, blinding him with instant tears and pain.
Then, amid distant shouting, he felt himself being spun in a tight circle and-briefly-flying.
Azoth's head slapped against hardwood and the world flashed bright.
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