The other man, not as tall but stouter, scratched at a grey-shot black beard as he squatted beside his companion. “No, it’s worse,” he whispered. “By the number of campfires, there’s one hell of a storm brewing down there.”
The man with the eye-patch sat silently for a long moment, then said, “Well, we’ve somehow gained a year. I expected them to hit us last summer. It is well we prepared, for now they’ll surely come.” He moved in a crouch as he returned to where a tall, blond man held his horse. “Are you coming?”
The second man said, “No, I think I’ll watch for a while. By seeing how many arrive and at what rate, I may hazard a good guess at how many he’s bringing.”
The first man mounted. The blond man said, “What matter? When he comes, he’ll bring all he has.”
“I just don’t like surprises, I suppose.”
“How long?” asked the leader.
“Two, three days at most, then it will get too crowded hereabouts.”
“They’re certain to have patrols out. Two days at the most.” With a grim smile, he said, “You’re not much as company goes, but after two years I’ve grown used to having you around. Be careful.”
The second man flashed a broad grin. “That cuts two ways. You’ve stung them enough for the last two years they’d love to throw a net over you. It wouldn’t do to have them show up at the city gates with your head on a battle pike.”
The blond man said, “That will not happen.” His open smile was in contrast to his tone, one of determination the other two knew well.
“Well, just see it doesn’t. Now, get along.”
The company moved out, with one rider staying behind to accompany the stout man in his watch. After a long minute of observing he muttered softly, “What are you up to this time, you misbegotten son of a motherless whoremonger? Just what are you going to throw at us this summer, Murmandamus?”
ONE - Festival
Jimmy raced down the hall.
The last few months had been a time of growth for Jimmy. He would be counted sixteen years old the next Midsummer’s Day, though no one knew his real age. Sixteen seemed a likely guess, although he might be closer to seventeen or even eighteen years old. Always athletic, he had begun to broaden in the shoulders and had gained nearly a head of height since coming to court. He now looked more the man than the boy.
But some things never changed, and Jimmy’s sense of responsibility remained one of them. While he could be counted upon for important tasks, his disregard of the trivial once again threatened to turn the Prince of Krondor’s Court into chaos. Duty prescribed that he, as Senior Squire of the Prince’s court, be first at assembly, and as usual, he was likely to be last. Somehow punctuality seemed to elude him. He arrived either late or early, but rarely on time.
Squire Locklear stood at the door to the minor hall used as the squires’ assembly point, waving frantically for Jimmy to hurry. Of all the squires, only Locklear had become a friend to the Prince’s squire since Jimmy returned with Arutha from the quest for Silverthorn. Despite Jimmy’s first, accurate judgment that Locklear was a child in many ways, the youngest son of the Baron of Land’s End had displayed a certain taste for the reckless that had both surprised and pleased his friend. No matter how chancy a scheme Jimmy plotted, Locklear usually agreed. When delivered up to trouble as a result of Jimmy’s gambles with the patience of the court officials, Locklear took his punishment with good grace, counting it the fair price of being caught.
Jimmy sped into the room, sliding across the smooth marble floor as he sought to halt himself. Two dozen green-and-brown-clad squires formed a neat pair of lines in the hall. He looked around, noting everyone was where they were supposed to be. He assumed his own appointed place at the instant that Master of Ceremonies Brian deLacy entered.
When given the rank of Senior Squire, Jimmy had thought it would be all privilege and no responsibility. He had been quickly disabused of that notion. An integral part of the court, albeit a minor one, he was, when he failed his duty, confronted by the single most important fact known to all bureaucrats of any nation or epoch: those above were not interested in excuses, only in results. Jimmy lived and died with every mistake made by the squires. So far, it had not been a good year for Jimmy.
With measured steps and rustling red and black robes of office, the tall, dignified Master of Ceremonies crossed to stand behind Jimmy, technically his first assistant after the Steward of the Royal Household, but most often his biggest problem. Flanking Master deLacy were two purple-and-yellow-uniformed court pages, commoners’ sons who would grow up to be servants in the palace, unlike the squires who would some day be among the rulers of the Western Realm. Master deLacy absently tapped his iron-shod staff of office on the floor and said, “Just beat me in again, did you, Squire James?”