“To be honest, Highness, I grow a little bored with dicing,” said Astrian.
“Of course you do, now that I am beginning to win my money back!” Morgan straightened up in triumph, the wayward coin in his fist. “What else have we to do, in any case? It must be rising midnight, and you told me the wine is all gone.”
“Perhaps,” said Astrian.
“Perhaps?” Morgan grimaced. “Anything but ‘yes’ has an ugly sound, for I could happily drink more.”
Sir Porto stirred. “I marvel at your stomach, young master. It must be from your mother’s side. Your late father, I recall, never drank anything stronger than the weakest, most watered wine . . .” His eyes widened in distress. “Oh, Highness, forgive me. I forgot what day it is.”
“Fool,” said Olveris.
Morgan shook his head as though in anger, but said, “Don’t chide old Porto. What should I care? The dead are dead—it does no good to think on them too much.”
Porto still looked shaken, but now a little surprised as well. “Ah, but I am sure he watches you from Heaven, Prince Morgan. If it were me . . .” He fell silent, caught up by a sudden thought of his own.
“Only you could so deftly crush a conversation, ancient fool,” Astrian told him. “We speak of wine, then you chime in with death and Heaven, the two chief foes of a man’s drinking pleasure.”
Morgan shook his head again. “I said leave him be, both of you. If my father is watching over me, it would be the first time. No, truly—I will tell you a story. Once when I was but young, I went to his chambers to tell him I had saddled and rode my horse all by myself. When he came to the door, he said I must tell my master he was not to be disturbed.”
“I do not understand,” said Porto, frowning.
“He thought I was some page boy sent by Count Eolair.” Morgan smiled at the joke but did not seem to find it truly funny.
“Perhaps he had the sun in his eyes,” Porto said. “I am all but blind when the sun shines in my face . . .”
“It wasn’t the first time he did not know his own son, nor the last.” Morgan looked down for a moment, then turned to Astrian. “We were talking about wine. Why? Do we have some left after all?”
Sir Astrian smiled. “As it happens, a few local girls we met promised they would meet us tonight in the birch grove at the edge of the field. I told them if they brought wine they might even meet the true prince of all Osten Ard.”
For a moment Morgan brightened, but then an unhappy shadow passed over his face. “I can’t do it, Astrian. My grandparents want to be ready to ride into Hernysadharc tomorrow morning as soon as the invitation is received. They told me to be in my tent by the end of the second watch.”
“They want you rested, am I not right? So you may present yourself to the Hernystiri as befits a prince?”
“I suppose.”
“Then what do you think would be better, to go sourly and soberly to bed after I have finished taking more money from you, or to have an enjoyable time with some local wenches and to wet your dry throat enough to allow you a happy, peaceful sleep?”
Morgan laughed despite himself. “By God, you could argue the Ransomer down off the Holy Tree, Astrian. Well, perhaps I will go along for a little while, then. But you must promise to help me get back to the royal tents. My grandfather is already furious with me.” He made a face. “He had adventures. He slew dragons. But what does he expect of me? Endless, horrid ceremonies. Sitting still all day while fools drone on about justice and taxes and hides of land, like the buzzing of bees on a hot day. It is enough to send anyone to sleep, whether they have drunk any wine or not.” He stood, brushing the worst of the dry grass and dirt from his clothes, although it was hard to tell by lamplight whether he had improved his appearance much. The sleeve of his jerkin had a woeful tatter, and the knees of his hose were both now damp and darkened with mud. “Olveris, Porto, are you coming?”
Olveris appeared suddenly from the shadows like something lifted from a box. Porto only shook his head. “I am too old for this foolishness, night after night,” he said. “I will remain here and think about my soul.”
“That is the part of you least worth exercising, old man.” Astrian rose and stretched. “And now, Highness, if you’ll follow me, I believe some ladies await us.”
“It amazes me how such a short fellow cuts such a figure with the women,” the prince said, looking on his friend with more than a little pride.
“Huh,” said Olveris, looking down at the prince, who was in truth less than a handspan taller than Sir Astrian. “I see two short fellows.”
“Silence, beanpole,” said Morgan.
“There is no need for amazement, Highness.” Astrian was grinning. “As with swordplay, the weapon must only be well-employed and long enough to reach its target.” He made a mocking bow and swaggered out, pointedly leaving Prince Morgan and Sir Olveris to follow him.
After they had gone, Porto rose with a series of pained grunts and began to look around in case someone had left something to drink. After long moments of fruitless search, he sighed, then followed his comrades out between the tents and toward the distant birch grove.
The prince knew he had waved to the guards standing watch. That much was certain. Everything had been fine up until then. But now he seemed caught like a fish in a net, and it had happened quite by surprise.
He was having a particularly difficult time with tent flaps today—that much, at least, was beyond argument.
Morgan pawed at the heavy cloth, turning, trying to find the edge. No luck. He took another step forward, but now there seemed to be fabric on both sides of him. What madman would make a tent with two flaps? And when had they substituted it for the perfectly good tent he’d already had? The prince cursed and pawed again, then picked up as much of the flap as he could reach and lifted it, staggering forward with the weight of the heavy fabric on his head and shoulders. The stars appeared above him.
For just a brief moment he wondered why there were stars inside his tent, but then realized that he had somehow worked his way back outside. He had an overwhelming need to piss, so he undid his breeks and sent forth a mighty stream. He watched it feather in the stiff breeze until it dwindled and died. He decided he should try the flap again.
Ah, yes. I have been drinking. It explained a great deal.
This time he solved the puzzle after only a short interval of grunting and fumbling, and made it two steps into the tent before he smashed his shin against some obstacle. The pain was so fierce that he was still hopping on one foot swearing like a Meremund riverman when somebody flipped open a hooded lantern, bathing the interior of the tent in light.
“Where have you been?” demanded his grandmother, the queen. Morgan almost fell down before remembering two feet on the ground made for better balance. The shock of the sudden light and Queen Miriamele’s voice had not yet passed when she added, “And what are you thinking, child? Fasten your clothes, please.”
He scrabbled to pull his breeks closed. Drink had made his fingers as clumsy as raw sausages. “I . . . Majesty, I . . .”
“Oh, for the love of all that is good, sit down before you trip on something else and kill yourself.”
He sank onto the chest that had so recently and cruelly attacked him. His shin still throbbed. “Am I . . . is this . . . I thought . . .”
“Yes, you young fool, this is your tent. I was waiting for you. God, you are stinking drunk. And stinking is the word.”
He tried to smile, but it didn’t feel like he was getting it right. “Not my fault. Astr’n. Astr’n challenged Baron Colfer’s men to contest.” For a long time Morgan had thought that the man he was matching cup for cup was Baron Colfer himself. He had been surprised that the baron was so young and so muscular, and that he had the Holy Tree tattooed on his forehead. It hadn’t been until Morgan had fallen to his knees vomiting and the baron’s men had been cheering loudly for someone called “Ox” that he had realized the baron himself was not present.
He wouldn’t have felt so bad at this moment if he had managed to win. That would have made the scolding worthwhile.
“You have no idea how lucky you are that it was me waiting for you, not your grandfather. He already thinks you are becoming an embarrassment.”
“ ‘M not an em . . . embearsamint. ‘M a prince.”