‘Here’s what’s going to happen. You commoners are going to keep your heads down and not give the nobles any trouble. When it comes to the tournament this year, you will all bow out in the first round and let your betters take their rightful places. After all, it is our taxes that fund the King’s army and then we pay for our own noble battalions. It’s only fair that we lead the soldiers that our families pay for. You have no right and no chance of becoming a senior officer. You just don’t have the breeding. So stay out of our way and we might just let one of you serve as our lieutenant. Sound good?’ She smiled sweetly when she had finished speaking, as if she had just paid them a compliment. Fletcher was the first to speak.
‘Sounds like you’re scared of a little competition,’ he said, stretching with exaggerated nonchalance. The others remained silent, wondering what the girl would do next. Isadora pouted like a spoiled child, a strange contrast to the self-assured she-devil of just moments ago.
‘Rare does not equal powerful. Remember that, Fletcher,’ she hissed in his ear.
As she straightened, Seraph came back into the room and smiled at the sight of the girls.
‘Lovely, nobody told me we had guests. Welcome to our humble abode! We haven’t been introduced. I’m Seraph Pasha.’
Isadora gave him a look of pure disgust, and then strode off down the stairs, ignoring Sylva, who was halfway to her room. The elf glared at Fletcher as if he were at fault, then rushed after her. The brunette stood indecisively in the stairwell, biting her lip at Seraph, whose face was a picture of incredulity.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said in an almost imperceptible voice.
‘Come on, Penelope!’ Isadora’s voice shouted from below. The girl turned and left, the back of her neck flushed red.
‘Nice to meet you,’ Rory called, as she disappeared from sight.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ Seraph asked, slumping into a chair.
‘She was feeling us out, wanted to see if we were pushovers. Guess she was wrong,’ Othello said, his fists clenched with anger.
‘What is Sylva doing cosying up to the nobles?’ Genevieve asked, equally distressed.
‘I guess as a chieftain’s daughter she considers herself a noble too,’ Fletcher said, the half-formed apology now gone from his thoughts. Although Isadora and Tarquin seemed to be the source of all the noble superiority so far as he could see, the fact that Sylva had jumped on that bandwagon did not place her in his good graces.
‘Come on, get your stuff together – let’s skip lunch and go to Corcillum now,’ Fletcher said.
‘Good thinking. I’ve lost my appetite,’ Othello replied, shaking his head with disappointment.
26
A carriage to Corcillum would have cost an extortionate six shillings per person, but Othello knew of a town a bit further down the main road that might be cheaper. Half an hour’s walk and another ten minutes of negotiation later and the group had found transport on the back of a horse-drawn cart for one shilling each. They purchased a basket of apples for another shilling and munched into them, enjoying the sweet tartness. Even the shower that beat down on them could not dampen their spirits as they laughed and tried to catch the raindrops in their mouths. Atlas’s Lutra enjoyed the rain the most, yapping and rolling on the wet boards of the cart.
They were dropped on the main road, which was thronging with vendors and customers despite the downpour. As they huddled in a street corner, people stared at their demons and uniforms, some smiling and waving, others hurrying past with fear in their eyes.
‘I want to go to the perfumery,’ Genevieve said, as two girls walked by under pink parasols. They wafted an exotic fragrance that reminded Fletcher of the mountains. His stomach twisted as he realised how little he had thought of Berdon over the past few days. He needed to get in contact to let him know everything was OK.
‘I need to run some errands, send some messages, that sort of thing. Othello, do you know someone who might be able to make a scabbard for my sword?’ Fletcher asked.
‘Sure . . . as long as you don’t mind stopping by my family home on the way,’ the dwarf replied, tugging on his beard in excitement.
‘Why not? I haven’t been to the Dwarven Quarter yet. Are there tailors there too?’ Fletcher asked.
‘The best in Hominum,’ Othello said firmly.
‘Well, someone has to come with me to the perfumery. I can’t go alone,’ Genevieve wheedled as more young ladies walked past. Seraph’s eyes lit up at the sight of them, and he volunteered without hesitation.
‘I’ll go. Perhaps there is some cologne that will help me melt Isadora’s cold heart,’ he said with a wink.
‘Rory? Are you with us or them?’ Fletcher asked.
‘I think I’ll go with Genevieve. It would be interesting to see what they do with all the flowers. My mother collects mountain flowers and sells them to perfume merchants,’ Rory said, with a sidelong look at the pretty girls walking by. Fletcher was sure Rory’s motive was based on more than the art of scent making, but he didn’t blame him. It was only two days ago that he had been awestruck by the beauty of Corcillum’s girls and their painted faces. Atlas had already begun to wander down the street, but Fletcher assumed he would not want to come with them to the Dwarven Quarter, given his animosity towards Othello.