“Up early, I see. I’ll have whatever you want brought to the great hall.”
“Actually, I’d rather eat here. Is that okay?”
“I’m sorry?” the cook said, confused. “If you don’t mind me asking, why would a fine nobleman like yourself want to eat in a hot, dirty kitchen surrounded by the clang of pots and the gibbering of maids?”
“I just feel more comfortable here,” Hadrian said. “I think a man ought to be at ease when eating. Of course, if it’s a problem…” He stood.
“You’re Sir Hadrian, aren’t you? I haven’t found the time to see the jousts, but as you can see, most of my staff has. You’re quite the celebrity. I’ve heard all kinds of stories about you and your recent change in fortune. Are any of them true?”
“Well, I can’t say about the stories, but my name is Hadrian.”
“Nice to meet you. Name’s Ibis Thinly. Have a seat, sir. I’ll fix you right up.”
He hurried away, scolding his crew to return to work. Many continued to glance over at Hadrian, stealing looks when they felt the head cook could not see. In a short while, Ibis returned with a plate of chicken, fried eggs, and biscuits and a mug of dark beer. The chicken was so hot that it hurt Hadrian’s fingers, and the biscuits steamed when he pulled them open.
“I appreciate this,” Hadrian told Ibis, taking a bite of biscuit.
Ibis gave him a surprised look and then chuckled. “By Mar! Thanking a cook for food! Them stories are true, aren’t they?”
Hadrian shrugged. “I guess I have a hard time remembering that I’m noble. When I was a commoner, I always knew what noble meant, but now, not so much.”
The cook smiled. “Lady Amilia has the same problem. I gotta say it’s nice to see decent folk getting ahead in this world. The news is you’ve ruled the field at Highcourt. Beat every knight who rode against you. I even heard you opened the tournament by tilting against Sir Murthas without a helm!”
Hadrian nodded with a mouthful of chicken, which he shifted from side to side, trying to avoid a burnt tongue.
“When a man does that,” Ibis went on, “and comes from the salt like the rest of us, he wins favor among the lower classes. Yes, indeed. Those of us with dirty faces and sweaty backs get quite a thrill from one such as you, sir.”
Hadrian did not know how to respond and contented himself with swallowing his chicken. He had ridden to the sound of roaring crowds every time he had competed, but Hadrian was not there for applause. His task was dark, secret, and not worthy of praise. He had unsaddled five knights and, by the rules of the contest, owned their mounts. Hadrian had declined that privilege. He had no need for the horses, but it was more than just that—he did not deserve them. All he wanted was the lives of Arista and Gaunt. In his mind, the whole affair was tainted. Taking anything else from his victories—even the pleasure of success—would be wrong. Nevertheless, the crowds cheered each time he refused his right to a mount, believing him humble and chivalrous instead of what he was—a murderer in waiting.
“It’s just you and Breckton now, isn’t it?” Ibis asked.
Hadrian nodded gloomily. “We tilt tomorrow. There’s some sort of hunt today.”
“Oh yes, the hawking. I’ll be roasting plenty of game birds for tonight’s feast. Say, aren’t you going?”
“Just here for the joust,” Hadrian managed to say even though his mouth was full again.
Ibis bent his head to get a better look. “For a new knight on the verge of winning the Wintertide Highcourt Tournament, you don’t seem very happy. It’s not the food, I hope.”
Hadrian shook his head. “Food’s great. Kinda hoping you’ll let me eat my midday meal here too.”
“You’re welcome anytime. Ha! Listen to me sounding like an innkeeper or castle lord. I’m just a cook.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Sure, these mongrels quiver at my voice, but you’re a knight. You can go wherever you please. Still… if my food has placed you in a charitable mood, I would ask one favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Lady Amilia holds a special place in my heart. She’s like a daughter to me. A sweet, sweet lass, and it seems she’s recently taken a liking to Sir Breckton. He’s good, mind you, a fine lancer, but from what I’ve heard, you’re likely to beat him. Now, I’m not saying anything against you—someone of my station would be a fool to even insinuate such a thing—but…”
“But?”
“Well, some knights try to inflict as much damage as they can, taking aim at a visor and such. If something were to happen to Breckton… Well, I just don’t want Amilia to get hurt. She’s never had much, you see. Comes from a poor family and has worked hard all her life. Even now, that bas—I mean, Regent Saldur—keeps her slaving night and day. But even so, she’s been happy lately, and I’d like to see that continue.”