“Who are you to defy Erandabon?” chanted the crowd of Tenkin warriors.
“Get back!” Hadrian ordered, pushing Wesley and the others into a niche that afforded a small amount of defense. He pulled a torch from the wall and together with Royce formed a forward defense.
The Tenkin soldiers charged, screaming as they attacked.
Royce appeared to dodge the advance, but the foremost warrior fell dead. Hadrian drove the flame of his torch into the second Tenkin’s face. Using his feet, Royce flipped the dead man’s sword to Hadrian, who caught it in time to decapitate the next challenger.
Two Tenkins charged Royce, who simply was not where they expected him to be when they arrived. His movements were a blur, and two more collapsed. Hadrian advanced as Royce kicked the dead men’s weapons behind them to Wyatt, Derning, and Wesley. Hadrian stood at the center now.
Three attacked. Three fell dead.
The rest retreated, bewildered, and Hadrian picked up a second blade.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
The warlord walked toward them, applauding and grinning. “Galenti, it is you. So good to have you back!”
CHAPTER 18
THE POT OF SOUP
Amilia sulked in the kitchen, head in her hands, elbows resting on the baker’s table. This was where it had all started, when Modina’s former secretary had brought her to the kitchen for a lesson in table manners. Remembering the terror of those early days, she was staggered to realize those had been better times.
Now a witch hid in Modina’s room, filling the empress’s head with nonsense. She was a foreigner, the princess of an enemy kingdom, and yet she spent more time with Modina than Amilia did. She could be manipulating the empress in any number of ways. Amilia had tried to reason with Modina, but no matter what Amilia said, the girl remained adamant about helping the witch find Degan Gaunt.
Amilia preferred the old days, when Modina had left everything to her. Sitting there, she wondered what she should do. She wanted to go to Saldur and report the witch but knew that would hurt Modina. The empress might never recover from such a betrayal, especially by Amilia, whom she trusted implicitly. The loss would surely crush her fragile spirit, and Amilia saw disaster at the end of every path. She felt as if she were in a runaway carriage racing toward a cliff, with no way to reach the reins.
“How about I make you some soup?” Ibis Thinly asked her. The big man stood in his stained apron, stirring a large steaming pot, into which he threw bits of celery.
“I’m too miserable to eat,” she replied.
“It can’t be as bad as all that, can it?”
“You have no idea. She’s become a handful and then some. I’m actually afraid to leave her alone. Every time I walk out of her room, I’m frightened something terrible will happen.”
It was late and they were the only two in the scullery. Long shadows, cast by the flames of the cook’s hearth, traced up the far wall. The kitchen was warm and pleasant, except for a foul smell coming from the bubbling broth Ibis cooked on the stove.
“Oh, it can’t be as bad as all that. Come on, can’t I interest you in some soup? I make a pretty mean vegetable barley, if I do say so myself.”
“You know I love your food. It’s just that my stomach is in knots. I noticed a gray hair in the mirror the other day.”
“Oh please, you’re still just a girl,” Ibis laughed, then caught himself. “I guess I shouldn’t speak to you that way, you being noble and all. I should be saying, ‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ or in this case, ‘No, no, Your Ladyship! If you’ll allow me to be so bold as to speak plainly in your presence, I beg to differ, for I think you’re purty as a pot!’ That would be a more proper response.”
Amilia smiled. “You know, I never have understood that saying of yours.”
Ibis drew himself up in feigned offense. “I’m a cook. I like pots.” He chuckled. “Have some soup. Something warm in your belly will help untie some of those knots, eh?”
She glanced at the pot he was stirring and grimaced. “I don’t think so.”
“Oh no, not this. Great Maribor, no! I’ll make you something good.”
Amilia looked relieved. “What is that you’re making? It smells like rotten eggs.”
“Soup, but it’s barely fit for animals, made with all the worst parts of old leftovers. The smell comes from this horrid yellow powder I have to use. I try to dress it up as best I can. I throw some celery and spices in, just to ease my conscience.”
“Who’s it for?”