A Cast of Stones (37 page)

Twilight darkened the courtyard, yet the nobles were still watching and waiting for their turn with Errol when a nuntius strode through the press to hand him a rolled parchment. The seal of hardened wax left a warm spot on the palm of his hand.

“What's the message, nuntius?” Reynald asked.

The messenger looked at Errol, who nodded.

“Errol Stone,” the nuntius declared in a clear tenor, “at noon tomorrow you are commanded to present yourself to the king in the royal throne room.” He stopped.

Errol's heart decided to stop beating. Had the abbot somehow gotten to the king? Why would the king want to see him? What was he supposed to do or say or wear?

The nobles looked at him with renewed interest. Deep down, they probably didn't care if he was a villain or a saint, as long as he provided an interesting diversion.

“That's it?” he asked the nuntius.

The messenger nodded, adjusted the band of office on his arm, and retreated the way he came.

Reynald stepped in, pushed the nobles back to give Errol room. “That's it for today, my lords.” He caught Errol by the arm. “I don't know what trouble you might be in, lad, but I'll stand for you if I can.” With a wave of his arm, he beckoned to a grim-faced sergeant. “Gillis, accompany Errol Stone back to his quarters.”

Errol nodded his thanks and started back to Luis's quarters, the watchman trailing him with his hand resting on his sword pommel.

“Right waste of time, this is,” the man said once they were out of earshot of Captain Reynald. “As long as you've got that staff, with knobblocks on it no less, you should be protecting me.” Short and broad-faced, the sergeant possessed the same dark sense of humor as Cruk.

Errol shrugged and pointed around the corridor. “The staff is a weapon that requires room to move. In tight spaces, a sword would be better. I'm just not much good with it.”

“Aye, there's truth in that, there is.” The man looked at Errol from the corner of his eyes. “You seem to have a little more sense than most of the nobles they bring here, if you don't mind my sayin' so, milord.”

Surprised laughter burst from him and bounced back from the stone corridor as bubbles of sound.
Me? A nobleman?
His mirth threatened to run away with him. For a moment he teetered on the edge of hysterics. With a deep breath he took hold of himself.

“That might be because I'm a peasant,” Errol said at last.

“Ah, well. That explains that, it does. But why were you ordered before the king?”

“I don't know?” He bit his lip. “Is there anything I should know?”

The sergeant grunted. “I've never been called before the king, and I'm not good enough to draw guard duty for His Majesty, at least not yet.” They walked on. “But I'd keep that strip of cloth around my arm. It may not impress the king much, but it'll keep others from taking you lightly, it will. News will spread of what it means. It's not like a captain of the watch bestows his authority every day.”

Errol started. “His authority? I thought I was just going to teach people how to use the staff.”

The sergeant shook his head. “Aye, that's what it means, right enough, but only officers in the watch instruct. As long as you've got that armband on, anyone from a lieutenant on down is under your authority.”

He finished the walk to Luis's quarters in a daze. Him? He could order the watch?

Luis opened the door to his knock, took one look at the armband, and sighed.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Errol said.

Gillis nodded and left.

Luis gestured toward the strip of cloth. “I see you made a new friend today.”

“I didn't know, I swear. Captain Reynald . . .” Errol said. For some reason he couldn't identify, the strip of cloth made him feel suddenly disloyal, as if he'd chosen to associate with the watch instead of the conclave. But that was silly. The primus had ordered him to the watch as penance, after all. Only, having Captain Reynald tear the hem of his tunic and award it to him hadn't felt like penance. It felt like a reward.

“Never mind, Errol.” Luis waved his concerns away with one hand. “The captain is a shrewd man and a skilled negotiator. He wants you for himself, but in this he is overmatched. He may be a captain of the watch, but he is outranked by the primus, and you are now the only surviving omne of the kingdom.” The secondus smiled. “Ah, Errol, were we not in the middle of the
greatest crisis our kingdom has seen in two millennia, we would have issued proclamations and held parades in your honor, and you would have been toasted throughout Illustra.” Luis shook his head. “As it is now, we dare not let any know of your special ability, not even the king.”

“Why does the king want to see me?”

“He keeps his own counsel, Errol. I don't know.”

The idea of meeting the king both thrilled and frightened him. Rodran VI ruled an empire of provinces that spanned a continent. Millions of people owed their obeisance to him. For three generations, sixty years, he'd ruled from Erinon and enforced peace with the Merakhi and Morgols.

“What sort of king is he?”

Luis raised his hands, palms up. “The king is a man, Errol, forced by an accident of birth to assume the rule of the kingdom.” He sighed. “By most accounts, he's been a good king. He's kept the empire strong so that the Merakhi and the nomads have kept their distance. He probably would have been considered one of the best kings ever.”

“If he'd had a son?” Errol asked.

“Yes. If only he'd had a son.”

“Why can't a male relative take the throne?”

“There isn't one,” Luis said. “The royal line has never been overly large and in the last hundred years or so, it has shrunk. Rodran's younger brother, Jaclin, died ten years ago.” His mouth thinned, leaving Errol to wonder what the reader wasn't saying.

“How did he die?”

Luis shrugged off the question. “Jac left behind a daughter, Adora. That's all there is.”

Adora?
What were the chances . . . ? The girl from the barracks courtyard was the king's niece? Errol's heart fell.

The night passed in a series of waking moments interrupted by a restless doze. Errol often checked the window, only to find the
moon still up. At last the sky pinked to the east and the stubborn sun rose to bathe Erinon in the orange light of early dawn. The grit of sleeplessness filled his eyes, and even the simple tasks of dressing and eating required concentration.

At ten o'clock a knock at the door announced the arrival of a tall, thin man Luis introduced as the king's chamberlain. Upon admittance to Luis's quarters with two servants, one male, one female, in tow, the chamberlain peered at Errol and began making impatient sounds as he circled him.

“No. No. No. This won't do at all. I see I should have gotten here earlier.” The chamberlain stood so close Errol could have counted each hair of his eyelashes. He smelled of cloves and rose water.

The chamberlain raised his arm and snapped his fingers twice, and the male servant stepped forward, pen and paper at the ready.

“Will, I think a blue doublet and gray hose would be best. Hmmm. Also, bring a black belt and matching boots. I judge him to be nearly eight spans.” The chamberlain peered at Errol's feet. “Make the boots a span and two. That should be close enough. And bring it all to the baths at the north end of the palace.”

Will bowed. “Yes, Oliver.” He turned and left, still making notes.

Oliver took Errol's chin in one hand and turned it first this way, then that. “Now for the hard part.” He glanced over his shoulder at the girl. “What do you think, Charlotte?”

She held her lip between her teeth as she examined him from the neck up with the intensity of an herbwoman. “He's well-favored enough, but the hair is a loss, I think. It'll have to go.”

“You're right,” Oliver said, “but he has the facial structure to make a close crop work, if it's done well. What about the beard?”

Charlotte shook her head and touched a couple of spots on either side of his chin. “No. See the bare spots? Shaven is the only option. Still, I think he'll clean up well.”

The chamberlain jerked his head in agreement. “Let's be about it, then. Follow us, boy.”

Errol felt a little overwhelmed and vaguely insulted at their
treatment. Was this normal preparation for an audience with the king? He needed help. “Luis?”

The reader looked at him with a twinkle in his eyes. “Oliver Turing is the only person in the palace who can tell the king what to do and get away with it. What chance do you think you have?”

“None,” Oliver said. “Now, let's move, boy. I have to make you presentable before noon.” He lofted an exaggerated sigh toward the ceiling. “This may be my biggest challenge yet.”

Errol followed the pair of fussy servants to the baths, his mind conjuring frightening images of what would come. They passed through an oversized archway, and the chamberlain stopped before a doorway whose interior glowed from torches burning in thick steam. The air smelled of soap and rose petals. “Here.” He pointed. “The hard soap on the table is for your body. The liquid in the pitcher is for your hair.” His voice became stern. “Meet us in the antechamber in half an hour. Do a good job, or I will have Charlotte accompany you to do it over.”

Oliver's female assistant neither smiled nor frowned but only took the statement as simple truth.

Eyes wide, Errol nodded, vowing that they would find no fault with his cleaning. A row of large copper tubs lined one wall. On the opposite side was the table. He disrobed and for the next twenty minutes, encased in steam, he bathed, scrubbed, and scoured. At the end he felt as if he'd taken off half his skin.

His garments, including his smallclothes, had been removed sometime during his bath and replaced by a thick blue robe. Belting it tightly around his waist, he found Charlotte and Will waiting for him in the antechamber to the baths.

She pointed to a chair. “The shave first, I think. Let's see what we have to work with before we cut the hair.”

Will stepped forward, stropping a razor with practiced familiarity. Five minutes later, Errol was sure the servant had peeled his face like an overripe grape, but no matter how many times he raised a hand to his chin he could find no trace of blood.

Charlotte ran fingers across his cheeks with the trace of a smile. “Hmmm, there's more to work with than I thought.” Her hand moved to his hair, ruffling, pulling, and combing. “Yes. Yes, I think that will do nicely,” she said.

“What will do?” Errol asked.

She tapped him on the head with her comb. “Never mind, boy. I wasn't talking to you. Now, hold perfectly still unless you want to go before the king looking like a dog with the mange.”

For what seemed an eternity, the only sound in the room was the snip of Charlotte's small shears. Cascades of dark, nearly black hair fell around Errol, and gooseflesh rose on his arms as unaccustomed whispers of air touched his neck. Just as Charlotte finished with a self-satisfied nod, Oliver strode through the door accompanied by Will, who held a pile of clothing.

The chamberlain stopped, his eyes wide. “Oh, Charlotte, you have worked a miracle.”

She batted her eyes in response to the praise. “Don't I always?”

“Yes, dear. Now, lad, let's get you dressed. Hurry! It's almost time.”

Errol took the proffered clothes and retreated to a dressing chamber, emerging moments later to find the chamberlain tapping one foot with impatience.

“Finally. Let's go.”

“No,” Errol said. “I need my armband.”

“Ridiculous,” Oliver said. “It will totally ruin the look.”

Enough was enough. “I don't care. I'm not going before the king without the band Captain Reynald gave me.” To show the strength of his intent, he sat down.

The chamberlain's mouth pursed in disapproval. “Will, get the armband and fasten it, tastefully mind you, on his arm.”