— 22 —

The king’s return put an end to the Companions’ easy, insular life in the city. Erius wanted Korin with him at court nearly every day, and the Companions went with him.

Or half of them. Split already by age, they now found themselves further divided by blood and title. Tobin had slowly come to understand the subtle distinction between squire and noble, although the squires were the sons of noble families themselves. But now those distinctions were thrown into still sharper contrast. When Korin and the others went to court, the squires remained behind at their lessons at the Old Palace.

Tobin didn’t care much for this new arrangement, for it meant being separated from Ki.

He was walking through the Companions’ wing in search of him one afternoon not long after their return when he heard a woman sobbing somewhere nearby. Rounding a corner, Tobin saw a maid hurrying away down the corridor with her apron over her face.

Puzzled, he went on, only to hear more weeping as he approached his own door. Inside, his page Baldus was huddled sobbing in one of the armchairs. Ki stood over him, awkwardly patting his shoulder.

“What’s wrong?” Tobin exclaimed, hurrying over. “Is he hurt?”

“I just got here myself. All I’ve gotten out of him so far is that somebody’s dead.”

Kneeling, Tobin pulled the boy’s hands away from his face. “Who is it? Someone in your family?”

Baldus shook his head. “Kalar!”

The name meant nothing to Tobin. “Here, take my handkerchief and wipe your nose. Who was she?”

Baldus drew a hitching breath. “She brought the laundry around and changed the hallway rushes…” He dissolved into tears again.

“Oh, yes,” said Ki. “The pretty blond with the blue eyes who was always singing.”

Tobin knew who he meant. He’d liked her songs and she’d smiled at him. He’d never thought to ask her name.

They could get nothing more out of Baldus. Ki gave him some wine, then tucked him into the disused squire’s alcove to cry himself to sleep. Molay came in and set about his duties, but he was uncharacteristically silent and grim.

“Did you know this Kalar, too?” asked Tobin.

Molay sighed as he hung a discarded tunic in the wardrobe. “Yes, my prince. Everyone knew her.”

“What happened?”

The man pulled a few socks from under Tobin’s workbench and shook off the bits of wax and metal shavings. “She died, my lord.”

“We know that!” said Ki. “What happened to her? It wasn’t plague, was it?”

“No, thank the Light. It seems she was pregnant and miscarried last night. Word came a little while ago that she did not survive.” The man’s careful reserve gave way for a moment and he wiped at his eyes. “She was hardly more than a girl!” he exclaimed in a low, angry voice.

“That’s nothing unusual, losing a child early on like that, especially the first one,” Ki mused when Molay was gone. “Most don’t die of it, though.”

It was several days before the servants’ gossip made its way into the Companions’ mess. The child was rumored to have been Korin’s.

Korin took the news philosophically; after all, it had only been a bastard, and a servant’s child at that. Red-haired Lady Aliya, who’d been the focus of his attention for some time now, was the only one who seemed pleased with the news.

The girl was soon forgotten as the boys came to grips with another unpleasant development, and one that struck closer to home. Not only had Moriel somehow gotten appointed to the king’s retinue, but he was already a favorite.

Korin was no more pleased than Tobin was with this unexpected addition to his father’s household. Promotion had not improved the Toad’s manners, as far as they could see, but the king doted on him. A tall, pale, arrogant boy of fifteen now, Moriel stuck close to the king, always at hand, always obsequious.

His new duties frequently brought him into the Old Palace, as well, though equerries had seldom been seen there before. There was always some message to deliver or some object the king needed from one of the old wings. It seemed to Tobin that every time he turned around the Toad was disappearing around a corner, or hanging about with Mago and his friends among the squires. In that, he’d gotten his wish, after all, if only peripherally.

Korin detested him even more than anyone. “He’s in Father’s chambers more than I am!” he grumbled. “Every time I go there, there he is, smirking and fawning. And the other day, when Father was out of earshot, he called me by my first name!”

Things came to a head between the two boys a few weeks later. Tobin and Korin had gone to the king’s chamber to invite Erius to hunt and found their way blocked by Moriel. Instead of bowing them in, he stepped out and closed the door behind him.

“Go tell my father I wish to see him,” Korin ordered, already bristling.

“The king does not wish to be disturbed, Highness,” Moriel replied, his tone just short of rude.

Tobin watched his cousin size the other boy up. He’d never seen Korin really angry, but he was now.

“You will announce me at once,” he said in a tone that anyone would have been foolish to ignore.

To Tobin’s amazement, Moriel shook his head. “I have my orders.”

Korin waited the space of a heartbeat, then backhanded Moriel so hard that he went sprawling and slid several feet along the polished marble floor. Blood trickled down from his nose and a split lip.

Korin bent over him, shaking with fury now. “If you ever dare speak to me in such a tone again—if you fail to obey my command or forget to address me properly, I will have you impaled on Traitor’s Hill.”

With that he wrenched his father’s door open and strode inside, leaving Moriel cowering. Tobin might have pitied the boy, but the poisonous glare Moriel shot after Korin killed the sentiment.

From the antechamber, he could hear Korin raging to his father, and the murmur of the king’s amused reply. Entering the room, he found Niryn with them, standing just behind the king’s chair. He said nothing, but Tobin was certain he caught a hint of Moriel’s smirk in the wizard’s eyes.

Aside from these disruptions, the summer flowed on smoothly enough for a while. It was the hottest in memory and the countryside suffered. Petitioners at court brought tales of drought and wildfires, murrains and dry wells.

Standing by the throne each day, Tobin listened with interest and sympathy, but felt little touched by it, busy as he was with his new duties.

The noble Companions often served at the king’s table now, just as the squires served them. By right of birth, Tobin acted as their panter, cutting the different breads for each course. Korin was an expert carver, flashing the six kinds of knives skillfully about as he served up the meats. The other boys fell out by age and family, with hulking Zusthra as butler and Orneus making a clumsy job of mazer, despite all Lynx’s attempts to train him. The second time he slopped wine on the king’s sleeve he was summarily demoted to almoner and Nikides took charge of the king’s cup.

Afternoon arms practice and their lessons with old Raven continued in spite of the heat, but the mornings were spent at the audience chamber. Korin and Tobin sat next to the king. Hylus and the others stood just behind them, often for hours at a time. Erius began consulting Korin on the smaller matters, letting him decide the fate of a miller found to be short measuring, or an alewife selling sour brew for good. The king even allowed him to try some of the lesser criminals and Tobin was surprised at how quick his cousin was to mete out floggings and brandings.

With the exception of Nikides, the other boys found attending court tedious duty. Even with its high, pillared roof and tinkling fountains, the throne room was like an oven by noon. But Tobin found it fascinating. He’d always had a knack for reading faces and now he had an endless assortment to study. Soon he could almost see the thoughts forming as the petitioners cajoled, complained, or tried to curry favor. The tone of voice, the way a person stood, or where their gaze went as they spoke—all of it stood out like letters on a page. Liars fidgeted. Honest men spoke calmly. Scoundrels wept and carried on louder than the honest.

His favorite studies were not the Skalans, however, but the foreign envoys. Tobin marveled at the intricacies of diplomacy, as well as the visitors’ exotic clothing and accents. Mycenians were the most common, an earnest, hardheaded lot concerned with harvests, tariffs, and the defense of their borders. The Aurënfaie were the most diverse; there were dozens of different clans, each with their own distinctive headclothes and dealings.

One day the king received a half dozen men with swarthy skin and curly black hair. They wore long blue-and-black-striped robes of a type Tobin had never seen before, and heavy silver ornaments dangled from their ears. These, he was surprised to learn, were Zengati tribesmen.

Arengil and Tobin’s friends among the Aurënfaie craftsmen always spoke of Zengat with hatred or disdain. But, as Hylus later explained, the Zengati were as clannish as the ’faie, and some clans were more trustworthy than others.

The heat brought more than drought again that summer. From their secret rooftop practice ground, Tobin, Una, and the others could see great brown swaths marring the distant fields, where blight had destroyed the crops.

The summer sky was marred, as well. The Red and Black Death had broken out along the harbor outside the walls. Whole neighborhoods were burned flat and great columns of smoke hung over the water. To the west, a smaller column rose with darker urgency from the funeral grounds. Even people who’d died with no taint of plague on them were quickly disposed of.

Reports came from the inland towns of dead horses and oxen, and more disease. Erius ordered livestock and grain to be disbursed by the wealthy lords in each stricken district. Niryn’s Harriers hanged any who spoke of a curse on the land, but that did not stop the murmurs from growing. At the temples of Illior, the amulet makers had more business than they could keep up with.

Safe atop the Palatine, the Companions thought themselves untouched by such events until Porion forbade them to go farther into the city than Birdcatcher Street. Korin complained bitterly for days, cut off from his haunts in the harbor stews.

One thing they still had plenty of was wine, in spite of disapproving rumblings from the king. It flowed more freely than ever and even normally sensible Caliel began to show up for sword practice with red eyes and a sour demeanor.

Tobin’s set followed lead and drank their wine well watered. Thanks to this, they were generally the first up in the morning, and the first to learn that Korin’s squire was finding other places to sleep.

“What are you doing here?” Ruan demanded the first time they found Tanil curled in a blanket by the messroom hearth. He gave the older squire a playful nudge with his boot. Tanil usually answered such liberties by throwing the offender down and tickling him, signaling the others to pile on for an all-out wrestle. Instead, he stalked out without a word.

“Who pissed in his soup?” Ki muttered.

The others snickered, except for the crestfallen Ruan, who idolized Tanil.

“I wouldn’t be too chipper either, if I spent the night on the floor,” said Lutha. “Maybe he’s tired of Korin’s snoring.”

“Korin hasn’t been doing much snoring lately,” Ki confided. Living next door to the prince, he and Tobin had heard enough late night thumping and whispering to guess that Korin didn’t often go to bed alone.

“Well, I guess we know it’s not Tanil,” said Ruan.

“It never was!” Lutha scoffed. “No, Korin’s after another chambermaid.”

“I don’t think so,” Nikides mused later, trudging along beside them as they set off on the morning run. He’d gotten a bit more growth over the summer and lost most of his boyish fat, but he was still the slowest.

“What do you mean?” asked Ki, always eager for gossip.

Nikides looked ahead to make sure none of the older boys were in earshot. “I shouldn’t say anything—”

“You already have, blabbermouth. Tell!” Lutha urged.

“Well, when I was dining at Grandfather’s the other night, I overheard him saying something to my cousin the Exchequer about the prince and—” He looked ahead again, making certain Korin was still well ahead of them. “That he was—dallying with Lady Aliya.”

Even Ki was shocked. Servant girls were one thing, or other boys, even, but the noble girls were strictly kept.

Worse yet, none of them liked Aliya. She was pretty enough, but she had a mean, teasing way with everyone except Korin. Even Caliel avoided her when he could.

“Haven’t you noticed?” said Nikides. “She’s always with him, and from the way the maids have been sulking and moping, I’d say she’d pushed the rest of them out of his bed.”

“And Tanil,” Ruan reminded them.

Lutha let out a whistle. “Do you suppose he’s in love with her?”

Barieus laughed. “Korin in love? With his horses and hawks, maybe, but her? Bilairy’s balls, I hope not. Picture her as queen!”

Nikides shrugged. “You don’t have to love ’em to bed ’em.”

Lutha pretended to be shocked. “Is that any way for the Lord Chancellor’s grandson to talk? For shame!” He gave his friend a playful cuff on the ear.

The other boy yelped and swung at Lutha, who easily veered out of reach without breaking stride.

“You six, double time!” Porion shouted, falling out of the line to glare at them. “Or would you rather do a second round to build up your strength?”

“No, Master Porion!” Tobin called, and lengthened his stride, leaving Nikides to fend for himself.

“Nik’s right, you know. Just look at him,” said Ki. Korin was loping at the head of the pack, dark eyes sparkling as he shared some joke with Zusthra and Caliel. “He’s too wild to give his heart away. All the same, though, if Aliya is his favorite now, she’ll be worse than ever!”