Hadrian had just taken a seat when a cheer exploded beyond the closed door in the common room. Alric drained his glass and held it up to Jimmy, shaking it.
“Are you all right? Where have you been?” voices, muffled by the wooden door, called out in the common room. “Were you kidnapped? Will you resume your office? We missed you. Will you drive out the empire again?”
“Forgive me, dear people, but I have traveled long today,” Arista said from the other room. “I am very tired and cannot hope to answer all your questions. Just know this: the tyrants that once controlled the empire are gone. The empress now—and for the first time—rules, and she is good and wise.”
“You met her?”
“I have. I lived with her for a time and have just come from Aquesta. Evil men held her prisoner in her own palace and ruled in her name. But… she rose up against her captors. She saved my life. She saved the world from a false imperium. Now she is in the process of building the true successor to the Empire of Novron. Show her the trust you have given me, and I promise you will not be disappointed. Now, if you will allow me, I am very hungry.”
Cheering. Applause.
The door opened and Arista stepped inside, then closed it behind her and leaned on it as if she were barricading it with her body. “Where’d they all come from?”
“Word spread,” Ayers replied, looking self-conscious. “I need to get back to the bar. I can’t leave the mob too long without refreshment.”
As Ayers exited, Hadrian spotted Mince standing with the other boys just outside the doorway. Hadrian waved them in. All five entered the dining room in single file and stood just inside—afraid to move farther.
“They came to our room and told us there was food down here, sir,” Renwick said to Hadrian. “But we don’t know where to go.”
“Take a seat at the table,” Hadrian replied.
All the boys reacted with the same shocked expression, a mixture of fear and wonder.
“Oh, we aren’t going to have the servants eat with us,” Alric said, causing the boys to halt.
“There are enough chairs,” Arista pointed out.
“But honestly, stableboys? Look at them. They’re not just servants; they’re children. There must be somewhere else they can eat.”
“Actually, if I may…” Hadrian spoke loudly, stood up, and grabbed a hold of Mince, who was attempting to worm his way out of the room. “These young men here,” Hadrian said, pointing to Elbright, Kine, and Brand, “assisted in rousing the people of Aquesta to open the gates for you and your army. And Renwick”—Hadrian pointed at the oldest—“was a tremendous help to me as my squire during the time I pretended to be a knight.”
“Still am, sir. I don’t care what they say.”
Hadrian smiled at him. “He also fought in the palace courtyard and was one of the first into the dungeon, if you recall. And this young man here,” he said, holding the squirming boy with both hands, “is Mince. This child, as you call him, has been singled out by the empress herself as being instrumental in the overthrow of Ethelred and Saldur. Without them, it is very likely that your sister, Royce, I, and even the empress would all be dead. Oh, and of course, so would you and Mauvin. Not bad for a stableboy. So for all that they have done, don’t you think they deserve a place at our table?”
“Yes, yes, of course, of course,” Alric said quickly, looking a bit ashamed.
“Sit down,” Hadrian told them, and they each took a seat, smiles across their faces.
A rotund woman with short, ratty hair and saddlebag cheeks backed into the room from the kitchen, carrying a deep tray of spit-roasted lamb. She wore a gray wool dress and yet another grease-stained apron.
She approached the table and stopped abruptly, looking at the diners with a disappointed—even irritated—expression. “Missing three,” she said, her high voice reminding Hadrian of a squeaking door.
“I’ll bring a plate up for Royce. He’s… he’s not feeling well,” Hadrian explained.
Arista glanced at him. “Is it okay to leave him alone?”
Hadrian nodded. “I think so. Besides, if he wanted to do something, who’s going to stop him?”
“Elden will also be staying in his room,” Wyatt mentioned. “He has a thing about crowds.”
The cook nodded. Her large breasts, outlined by the apron, hung over the edge of the pan, threatening to nudge the steaming lamb. No one else spoke. Finally she asked, “And where’s that scoundrel Degan Gaunt? I can’t imagine him turning down a free meal.”
“Scoundrel?” Hadrian said, surprised. “I thought he was a hero here in Ratibor.”
“Hero?”
He nodded. “Yeah, you know. Local boy who went off to seek his fortune, became a pirate, and returned to lead the liberation movement.”
The cook laughed, though it was more like a cackle that juggled its way out of her round throat. She put down the tray and began cutting the meat.
Everyone at the table exchanged glances.