“Prince Jalan, an honour to meet you. I am Sir Gerrant of Treen.” As he straightened I took a half step back. They’d obviously noted Snorri’s stature and decided to put forwards their biggest man to receive us. Sir Gerrant stood near as tall and broad with it, a handsome face divided by an ugly scar. He spread his arm out to the side, inviting us in. The smile on his scar-split lips looked genuine enough. “I’ll show you to your rooms. You come too, Stann.” He glanced back at the page. “Prince Jalan will need someone to fetch and carry for him.”
Sir Gerrant led us up a wide flight of steps and along several corridors. The architecture had an alien quality to it, as if those who made it a thousand years before were not men. Everywhere I saw the signs of more recent work, of efforts made to construct a more human habitation. Floors had been removed, rooms broadened and heightened, curves introduced with carved timber supports, though nothing the Builders made needed any reinforcement.
“I had the honour of meeting Prince Martus during his mission the summer before last.” Sir Gerrant opened another set of doors and held them for us. “Your family resemblance is remarkable.”
I bit back a sharp reply and grimaced. It’s true my brothers both share something of my looks—which came from Father’s side of the family, the gold in our hair at least—the height from Grandmother and the handsome from Mother, our father being a short and unprepossessing fellow who would look as suited to being an office clerk as he does to wearing the cardinal’s hat. Martus, though, was shaped with a blunt hand. Darin a touch better. The artist had perfected the design by the time he got to me.
We passed through one hall where ladies watched us from a high gallery. I rather suspected Sir Gerrant had been induced to parade us for their inspection. I played the game and affected not to notice. Snorri, of course, stared up openly, grinning. I heard giggles and one of their number stage-whispered, “Not another vagabond prince?”
My room, where we finally arrived, was well appointed and, whilst not quite as grand as a visiting prince might expect, a hundred times better than any accommodation I’d seen since hastily exiting Lisa DeVeer’s bedroom what seemed like a lifetime before.
“I’ll show your man here to a servant’s chamber, or Stann here can do it later,” Sir Gerrant said.
“Take him away,” I said. “And don’t let any of your men mess with him. He’s not house-trained and he’ll end up breaking them.” I shooed Snorri back into the corridor with fluttering motions of my fingers. He made no reply, only grinned infuriatingly and set off after Gerrant.
I slumped down in an upholstered chair. The first comfortable seat I’d sat in for an age. “Boots.” I lifted a leg and the page came over to start tugging off the first of them. That was something I’d really missed on the road. Being bone idle. Father was too cheap to staff the hall properly, but when we had important visitors he would import a decent number of servants. The ideal level is where if you drop something there’s a maid on hand to scoop it up almost before it hits the floor, and if you’ve an itch that might otherwise require a twist or a stretch, you have only to mention it before indentured fingernails have scratched it for you.
The boot came free with a jerk and the child staggered away, then returned for the next. “And then you can bring me some fruit. Apples and some pears. Conquence pears, mind, not those yellow Maran ones; all mush they are.”
“Yes, sir.” The second boot came free and he took both off to wait beside the door. Hopefully someone would give them a good polish before the morrow, or better still replace them with a nicer pair. The boy opened the door and stepped out. “I’ll get the fruit.”
“Wait a moment.” I leaned forwards in my chair, wiggling my toes. “Stann, ain’t it?” It occurred to me the scamp might prove useful.
“Yes, sir.”
“Fruit, and some bread. And find out where this lost prince everyone’s celebrating has got to. What’s his name, anyway?”
“Jorg, sir. Prince Jorg.” And he was off without waiting for a dismissal, or even shutting the door behind him.
“Jorg, eh?” It struck me as odd now that I thought about it. Last night none of the Brothers had so much as mentioned this lost prince, gathered anew to his father’s bosom. The whole of Crath City had seemed wrapped in the celebration of the prodigal’s return and somehow we had found the only tavern in sight of the Tall Castle where nobody wanted to talk about it. Most odd.
A shadow at the doorway caught my attention and I let go my musings. “Yes?” Had young Stann been running from rather than running to? The man in the doorway didn’t look very frightening, but he must have been approaching along the corridor when Stann broke and ran . . .