Silverthorn (Riftware Sage Book 2)

Jimmy tugged at his collar.

 

Master of Ceremonies Brian deLacy struck the floor of the audience hall with his staff and the boy snapped eyes forward. Ranging from fourteen to eighteen years of age, the squires of Arutha’s court were being instructed upon the duties they would be performing during the upcoming celebration of Anita and Arutha’s wedding. The old Master, a slow-speaking, impeccably attired man, said, “Squire James, if you can’t remain still, we shall have to find something of an active duty for you, say, running messages between the palace and the outer billets?” There was a barely audible groan, for the visiting nobles were forever sending inconsequential notes back and forth, and the outer billets, where many of them were to be housed, were as far away as three-quarters of a mile from the palace proper. Such duty was mainly nonstop running to and fro for ten hours a day. Master deLacy turned to the author of the groan and said, “Squire Paul, perhaps you would care to join Squire James?”

 

When no answer was forthcoming, he continued. “Very well. Those of you who are expecting relatives to attend should know that all of you will be required to serve such duties in turn.” With that announcement, all the boys groaned, swore, and shuffled. Again the staff struck the wooden floor loudly. “You're not dukes, earls, and barons yet! One or two days duty will not cause your death. There will simply be too many in the palace for the servants, porters, and pages to meet every demand.”

 

Another of the new boys, Squire Locklear, the youngest son of the Baron of Land’s End, said, “Sir, which of us will be at the wedding?”

 

“In time, boy, in time. All of you will be escorting guests to their places in the great hall and in the banquet hall. During the ceremony you’ll all stand respectfully at the rear of the great hall, so you’ll all get to see the wedding.”

 

A page ran into the room and handed the Master a note, then dashed off without awaiting a reply. Master deLacy read the note, then said, “I must make ready for the reception for the King. All of you know where you must be today. Meet here again once the King and His Highness are closeted in council this afternoon. And anyone who is late will have an extra day of running messages to the outer billets. That is all for now.” As he walked off, he could be heard to mutter, “So much to do and so little time.”

 

The boys began to move off, but as Jimmy started to leave, a voice from behind shouted, “Hey, new boy!”

 

Jimmy turned, as did two others nearby, but the speaker had his eyes locked on Jimmy. Jimmy waited, knowing full well what was coming. His place in the order of squires was about to be established.

 

When Jimmy didn’t move, Lockear, who had also halted, pointed to himself and took a hesitant step toward the speaker. The speaker, a tall, rawboned boy of sixteen or seventeen years, snapped, “Not you, boy. I mean that fellow.” He pointed at Jimmy.

 

The speaker wore the same brown and green uniform of the house squires, but it was of better cut than those of most of the other boys; he obviously had the funds for personal tailoring. At his belt was a jeweled-hilt dagger, and his boots were so polished they shone like bright metal. His hair was straw-colored and cut cleanly. Knowing the boy had to be the resident bully, Jimmy rolled his eyes heavenward and sighed. His uniform fit poorly and his boots hurt and his healing side itched constantly. He was in an ill-tempered mood to begin with. Best to get this over with quickly, he thought.

 

Jimmy walked slowly toward the older boy, who was called Jerome. He knew Jerome’s father was the Squire of Ludland, a town up the coast from Krondor, a minor title, but one that garnered wealth for whoever held it. When Jimmy stood before him, he said, “Yes?”

 

With a sneer Jerome said, “I don’t like much about you, fellow.”

 

Jimmy slowly smiled, then suddenly drove his fist into Jerome’s stomach. The taller boy doubled over and collapsed onto the floor. He thrashed about for a moment before, with a grunt, he rose. “Why . . .” he began, but stopped, confronted by the sight of Jimmy standing before him, a dagger in his hand. Jerome reached to his belt for his own dagger and felt nothing. He looked down, then frantically about.

 

“I think this is what you are missing,” Jimmy said cheerfully, holding out the dagger to reveal the jeweled hilt. Jerome’s eyes widened. Jimmy tossed the dagger with a flick of his wrist and the blade stood quivering in the floor between Jerome’s boots. “And the name isn’t “fellow.” It’s Squire James, Prince Arutha’s Squire.”